As I mentioned in an earlier posting (the one in which I described breaking my arm), I frequently bike with my boys (and wife, but this isn't about her). Twice a week (weather permitting), I pick up my younger son from school and take him to an afternoon Spanish class. To get from my boys' school to the Spanish class requires going up two monstrously steep hills (all the more monstrous because of the weight I'm pulling up the hill with me). Until the end of the last school year, I did these bicycle journeys pulling my youngest behind me in a Burley trailer. Burley trailers are heavy (particularly with growing boys inside them), but they have a stabilizing impact on the whole biking experience. One feels rooted to the pavement. Also, if one happens to fall (again see my earlier posting), the trailer is not affected. When I broke my arm, my boys watched the incident as curious, if concerned, bystanders. The Burley trailer is awesome, but it only makes sense for smaller kids (until about 5 years of age). At that age, children can begin to bike by themselves. But what does the active stay-at-home father do if he has to shuttle a 5 and a half year-old child from one place to another in a city? Enter the pedal trainer.
The pedal trainer is an attachment for your bike. It consists of a metal tube that connects to the adult's bike, handlebars, pedals (with a chain), and a back wheel. It is essentially 3/4 of a bike (a bike missing a front wheel). Once the trainer is attached to the adult's bike, the adult essentially steers the bike(s) while the child gets experience riding without training-wheels. Sounds like a win-win situation, right? One can take one's child where he or she needs to be while providing training riding a pedal bike. My boy loves the pedal trainer (the official name is the Novara Afterburner). He is really excited when I pick him up from school in it. The unhappy party in the situation is me.
Last year, I would pick my boy up from school on bike. Pulling him in the Burley trailer, I confidently rode on the streets and up the hills. It was hard, but I always achieved my goal. We arrived at his Spanish class: he, an excited linguistic pupil; me, a sweaty, manly stay-at-home dad. How times have changed. The Novara Afterburner (through no fault of the actual product) has reduced me to a shell of my former sweaty, manly stay-at-home dadness. The pedal trainer requires the adult to not only steer, but balance, the child. It is hard and nerve-wracking. It is scary to have this responsibility. In the Burley trailer, a child is safe even if the adult falls. With a pedal trainer, if the adult's bike topples, so does the child. The pedal trainer slightly throws off the adult's balance; more space is required to adequately balance the bike. This makes narrow roads hazardous (and I try to travel solely on narrow roads so as to avoid cars). Yesterday, I was riding with my boy on one of these narrow streets when I felt unsteady. Although nothing dangerous actually happened, I let out an extremely manly shriek. I prayed that the street would be empty. That no one would witness this moment of shame. (How the mighty have fallen!) Unfortunately, I was not alone. My terror (that had led to my macho shriek) clouded my vision. I could only make out the frame of someone on the side-walk. I ardently hoped that the figure would turn out to be a grandmotherly figure. Some woman in her eighties or late seventies who would think "ah, yes. I, too, have experienced the terror of impaired balance. Bless you for your bravery, you, young, saint." My ardent hope was for naught. There, on the side-walk was a twenty year-old blond college student. She looked at me with pity. "Wow," she must have wondered, "wouldn't he feel more comfortable in velcro shoes? I wonder where his nurse has gone to? Should I call APS (adult protective services).?" This wasn't my best moment, and I blame the pedal trainer.
The imbalance also makes climbing steep hills arduous. To account for this increased difficulty I now traverse a hill couple of streets away from the one I did last year. The hill is slightly less steep and less crowded; this is good, but it makes me feel like a weenie. Like I'm avoiding the more manly challenge of the hill I used to climb. Last year, I would climb two hills to reach my son's Spanish school. The second hill was the icing on the cake. Summiting that hill was undeniable proof that I was a fit (dare I say it?) stud. Now, thanks to the Novara Afterburner, I don't even attempt the second hill (it's on a street next to a school and therefore too busy). Instead, I meekly dismount my bike and push it through the school-yard. The school-yard is filled with kids who stare at me thinking either "I remember that guy from last year; I wonder why he can't handle the hill like he used to (what a weenie!)" or "Look at that old fool; he can't even bike up a hill! (What a weenie)."
To be fair, I haven't pulled my child on the pedal trainer enough to have gained true proficiency. It is, also, only fair to note that, as a family, we have gone several times to a 13 mile long bike trail. I have pulled the pedal trainer there, and have experienced none of the fear/ineptitude that I so aptly displayed biking my son to his Spanish class. I, also, think that I should try to screw the pedal-trainer more tightly to my bike. This may cut down some of the feelings of disquiet that I have experienced.
Still, what's happened has happened. I am a significantly less impressive stay-at-home father (bikewise) than I was before I got the pedal trainer.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Sick Days
This Monday, my oldest boy greeted me in the morning with seven dreaded words: "I'm too sick to go to school." This was a particularly difficult case because, although it was clear that he felt terrible, he had no fever. What is a stay-at-home father to do? Be harsh and send a coughing, sickly-but-not-officially-sick child to school or accept one's fate that today would be, in the words of John Milton, "Paradise Lost." (Perhaps Milton was a stay-at-home father with a child home on a school day; I don't know for I've never actually read his book). Those of you less versed in the daily life of a stay-at-home father (or mother, I suppose) might wonder what Paradise I'm referring to and why it got lost. The Paradise in question, and I know that I'm being a tad dramatic, is the independence, tranquility, and general down-time that occurs when one's children are in school. When one's child is sick, and not at school, one's independence, tranquility, and down-time all suffer.
I have a fairly consistent approach to my children's being home sick from school. Mine is the "Let's take it easy" theory of getting better. "Taking it easy" usually involved watching movies, relaxing, and avoiding sports. This may sound elementary. It probably is, but it actually took me a long time to realize this elementary notion. I'm usually a big believer in being active when sick. If one usually exercises, then one exercises when sick. If one usually does yard-work, make sure to rake when sick. The same could be said for countless different activities. The concept behind my theory, and I know that it doesn't really make sense, was that if one continues to do what one does when healthy then one can fool one's body into believing it's healthy. Sickness cured. (It's good that I'm the stay-at-home father and not the MD in my family). I used to really put this practice into motion. When he was a young boy, I frequently took my older child to museums when he had fevers (crazy, I know). Oddly enough, my strategy was effective. For only the duration of the field trip, unfortunately. Invariably, my wife would return from work, and I'd say something to the tune of "it's odd; he seemed so healthy at the Children's Museum [or the Zoo or the Museum of Flight or the Science Museum]."
So, now I guess I've learned. My older boy and I sat mutely (but restfully) in front of the TV for many hours while he was home sick. It might have been a better idea to have him take a nap, but that seems like a waving of the white flag to me. There's no surrender in our house (probably no sense either). So, we watched a cool Japanese cartoon called Code Lyoko for a couple of hours. Then, in a burst of energy born from restful, nurturing and health boosting TV watching, my son went ballistic. He went from sitting on our downstairs couch to completing (and this is no joke) five consecutive spinning kicks, repeated arm punches, and several blasts from an imaginary rifle. He was aiming his aggression, no doubt, at Xana, the odd, cyber-villain from Code Lyoko. (Xana really is an odd duck as villains go; he has no body and doesn't really seem to do anything bad). After his assault on Xana, my boy ran into our backyard to play basketball. Sadly, this requires my following my son outside to clean-up after our dog. The de-pooping never lasts long, but it is not one of my favorite activities. Then, just as quickly as this flurry of activity began, it ended. My son ran back in the house, flopped on the couch, and said, "whew, I'm pooped." For a normal person, this would be a completely normal reaction (probably an indication of sound mental health), but for my boy, this is atypical in the extreme. He was feeling sick. So, we watched a little ESPN. We, then, went upstairs and had lunch. (He is currently loving my "restaurant style grilled cheese sandwich" (my son's words). By 'restaurant style,' my son is referring to my practice of (brace yourself for genius) putting a cheese sandwich in a panini press. A meal easily executed, mess-free, and appreciated. (I'm currently bowing to the fictional audience that so appreciates my savoir-faire in the kitchen). After eating,we retreated downstairs and "took it easy" some more. On other days, we hike, bike, play all sorts of sports, and are generally active, but it was in our sitting, near-comatose, in front of the TV that health was most perfectly achieved on this day.
I have a fairly consistent approach to my children's being home sick from school. Mine is the "Let's take it easy" theory of getting better. "Taking it easy" usually involved watching movies, relaxing, and avoiding sports. This may sound elementary. It probably is, but it actually took me a long time to realize this elementary notion. I'm usually a big believer in being active when sick. If one usually exercises, then one exercises when sick. If one usually does yard-work, make sure to rake when sick. The same could be said for countless different activities. The concept behind my theory, and I know that it doesn't really make sense, was that if one continues to do what one does when healthy then one can fool one's body into believing it's healthy. Sickness cured. (It's good that I'm the stay-at-home father and not the MD in my family). I used to really put this practice into motion. When he was a young boy, I frequently took my older child to museums when he had fevers (crazy, I know). Oddly enough, my strategy was effective. For only the duration of the field trip, unfortunately. Invariably, my wife would return from work, and I'd say something to the tune of "it's odd; he seemed so healthy at the Children's Museum [or the Zoo or the Museum of Flight or the Science Museum]."
So, now I guess I've learned. My older boy and I sat mutely (but restfully) in front of the TV for many hours while he was home sick. It might have been a better idea to have him take a nap, but that seems like a waving of the white flag to me. There's no surrender in our house (probably no sense either). So, we watched a cool Japanese cartoon called Code Lyoko for a couple of hours. Then, in a burst of energy born from restful, nurturing and health boosting TV watching, my son went ballistic. He went from sitting on our downstairs couch to completing (and this is no joke) five consecutive spinning kicks, repeated arm punches, and several blasts from an imaginary rifle. He was aiming his aggression, no doubt, at Xana, the odd, cyber-villain from Code Lyoko. (Xana really is an odd duck as villains go; he has no body and doesn't really seem to do anything bad). After his assault on Xana, my boy ran into our backyard to play basketball. Sadly, this requires my following my son outside to clean-up after our dog. The de-pooping never lasts long, but it is not one of my favorite activities. Then, just as quickly as this flurry of activity began, it ended. My son ran back in the house, flopped on the couch, and said, "whew, I'm pooped." For a normal person, this would be a completely normal reaction (probably an indication of sound mental health), but for my boy, this is atypical in the extreme. He was feeling sick. So, we watched a little ESPN. We, then, went upstairs and had lunch. (He is currently loving my "restaurant style grilled cheese sandwich" (my son's words). By 'restaurant style,' my son is referring to my practice of (brace yourself for genius) putting a cheese sandwich in a panini press. A meal easily executed, mess-free, and appreciated. (I'm currently bowing to the fictional audience that so appreciates my savoir-faire in the kitchen). After eating,we retreated downstairs and "took it easy" some more. On other days, we hike, bike, play all sorts of sports, and are generally active, but it was in our sitting, near-comatose, in front of the TV that health was most perfectly achieved on this day.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Innocence lost?
I picked my boys up from school a few days ago. I could tell something was abuzz when I reached my older son's class. I saw him and a friend dash into the Boy's bathroom. A female classmate of theirs came up to me with a big smile. "I know why they ran into the bathroom," she said, her grin stretching ear to ear. "Why," I asked. "I'd rather not tell you," she answered, beaming.
When my son exited the bathroom, saw me, and got ready to go, I asked him, "why'd you run into the bathroom?" "The girls," he whispered almost fearfully, but clearly pleased as well, "they're writing notes about me." I asked about the notes. "You know," he said (as in 'you know, the usual stuff'). "They wrote that they wanted to marry me, that I was cute, that I'm cool. Stuff like that." Now, I've discussed earlier how I react to these situations between my son and his female classmates. I should, of course, be mortified. "In second grade," I should say, shocked. "Do these girls parents even know what they're doing!!!???!!!." But that is not how I react. No. I am, and believe me- I'm embarrassed to admit it, really proud. Instead of questioning whether these girls parents know what their girls are doing, I'm wondering if they know how money my son is. I am literally straining my facial muscles trying not to grin a stupid, proud grin. But then my son adds something to the story. A spicy tidbit that even has me, the model for inappropriately proud fathers, wondering if something askew is going on. "One girl wrote that I'm sexy," he said. Let the internal struggle begin. Of course, thoughts of 'what a stud my boy is' or 'now that is MONEY- no one has ever described me as sexy, definitely not in the second grade' are racing through my head. But other thoughts are there too. Disturbingly mature thoughts like "'sexy?' this is going too far; I need to call these girls' parents" or "I guess it's time to talk about the birds and bees; isn't this five years too early?"
Luckily, my oldest child, as if sensing the turbulent and conflicting thoughts inside my head, says something that completely eases the situation. "Dad, what does 'sexy' mean?" Phew, disaster averted. No need to make potentially embarrassing/buzz-kill phone calls, no need to have a talk about matters that shouldn't be discussed for half-a-decade. "It means you're handsome," I answer. A good answer. It leaves my son feeling good about himself, but in an age-appropriate way (sort-of, I know, work with me here). We then picked up my younger son from his class, and the conversation quickly turned to my younger boy's experience at recess where he and a friend pretended to be a puppy while another friend pretended to be the daddy-dog. Ah, there is still innocence in childhood.
Or is there? Upon arriving home, I sat with my younger son as he practiced his violin. After he was finished, he looked at me with a smile, a performer's smile, a conjurer's smile. Rotating his arms in a magician-like manner, he said, "Daddy, guess what I brought to school today?" "What?" I asked; honestly, I expected him to tell me about the TIntin book that he brought for sharing circle. "This," he said with a grand flourish. Extending his arm, he raised his sleeve slightly and removed a Lincoln Log (the type that he pretends are light sabers). "I had it all day," he says with an impish smile and what looks suspiciously like a wink. I guess kids are more mature, today. I certainly never successfully smuggled a would-be light-saber into my pre-K class.
So, my eight year-old is being called 'sexy' by his female classmates. My five year-old is bringing imaginative toys to school, keeping them concealed up his shirt's sleeve, and doing so successfully. Let's see: inappropriate talk between girls and my boy on the one hand, and successful deception of school-staff on the other. What to feel? Proud? Concerned? I think that I'll stick to my original conclusion. My boys are so money.
When my son exited the bathroom, saw me, and got ready to go, I asked him, "why'd you run into the bathroom?" "The girls," he whispered almost fearfully, but clearly pleased as well, "they're writing notes about me." I asked about the notes. "You know," he said (as in 'you know, the usual stuff'). "They wrote that they wanted to marry me, that I was cute, that I'm cool. Stuff like that." Now, I've discussed earlier how I react to these situations between my son and his female classmates. I should, of course, be mortified. "In second grade," I should say, shocked. "Do these girls parents even know what they're doing!!!???!!!." But that is not how I react. No. I am, and believe me- I'm embarrassed to admit it, really proud. Instead of questioning whether these girls parents know what their girls are doing, I'm wondering if they know how money my son is. I am literally straining my facial muscles trying not to grin a stupid, proud grin. But then my son adds something to the story. A spicy tidbit that even has me, the model for inappropriately proud fathers, wondering if something askew is going on. "One girl wrote that I'm sexy," he said. Let the internal struggle begin. Of course, thoughts of 'what a stud my boy is' or 'now that is MONEY- no one has ever described me as sexy, definitely not in the second grade' are racing through my head. But other thoughts are there too. Disturbingly mature thoughts like "'sexy?' this is going too far; I need to call these girls' parents" or "I guess it's time to talk about the birds and bees; isn't this five years too early?"
Luckily, my oldest child, as if sensing the turbulent and conflicting thoughts inside my head, says something that completely eases the situation. "Dad, what does 'sexy' mean?" Phew, disaster averted. No need to make potentially embarrassing/buzz-kill phone calls, no need to have a talk about matters that shouldn't be discussed for half-a-decade. "It means you're handsome," I answer. A good answer. It leaves my son feeling good about himself, but in an age-appropriate way (sort-of, I know, work with me here). We then picked up my younger son from his class, and the conversation quickly turned to my younger boy's experience at recess where he and a friend pretended to be a puppy while another friend pretended to be the daddy-dog. Ah, there is still innocence in childhood.
Or is there? Upon arriving home, I sat with my younger son as he practiced his violin. After he was finished, he looked at me with a smile, a performer's smile, a conjurer's smile. Rotating his arms in a magician-like manner, he said, "Daddy, guess what I brought to school today?" "What?" I asked; honestly, I expected him to tell me about the TIntin book that he brought for sharing circle. "This," he said with a grand flourish. Extending his arm, he raised his sleeve slightly and removed a Lincoln Log (the type that he pretends are light sabers). "I had it all day," he says with an impish smile and what looks suspiciously like a wink. I guess kids are more mature, today. I certainly never successfully smuggled a would-be light-saber into my pre-K class.
So, my eight year-old is being called 'sexy' by his female classmates. My five year-old is bringing imaginative toys to school, keeping them concealed up his shirt's sleeve, and doing so successfully. Let's see: inappropriate talk between girls and my boy on the one hand, and successful deception of school-staff on the other. What to feel? Proud? Concerned? I think that I'll stick to my original conclusion. My boys are so money.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Fooling one's kids
Just because a man becomes a father (a most virtuous and righteous position) doesn't mean that bad habit don't stay with him (despite the aforementioned righteousness). The bad habit in question? Bad language. How to combat its potentially negative impact one's children? Be a mentally nimble father able to handle any slips regarding language. In other words, learn to be a thesaurus for words that sound like the naughty word that one might have said.
The best example of this from my parenting experience happened four years ago. I was biking both boys (pulling them in a Burley Trailer) in a hail storm. Not surprisingly falling ice tends to make the ground slippery. My bike fell as we crossed over a train track (luckily not one still in use). I fell on my arm and broke it. Needless to say, this hurt a lot. But, we were about four miles from home, and biking was our way to get there. So, I biked. Let me tell you, biking with a broken arm hurts. A lot. At first, I tried to mentally psych myself up for the arduous journey. I imagined Tedy Bruschi (a former linebacker for the Patriots). He plays through the pain all the time, I reasoned; all I had to do was bike through the pain. Easier said than done. The pain was tremendous, and, try as I might to channel my inner Patriot, I am not a tough football player and could not become one as I biked in the hail with a broken arm. Every time I pedaled the pain in my arm throbbed through my entire body. I uttered a curse; shouted it, really. "_UCK!" I shouted. Unable to stop myself, I shouted the curse several more times. Now, despite the pain, I did not forget that I had to be the best stay-at-home father I can be (maybe I'm not tough football player, but certainly a tough stay-at-home dad). I had to do something to address my language. "Boys," I grunted through the pain as I biked, "did you guys hear daddy saying 'truck?' I said it because I'm in pain and need to be as strong as a truck." For the remainder of the painful journey, I repeatedly used the oath that rhymes with truck. Every few moments, I reminded the boys that I was saying truck "for strength." We made it back home. "Wow," I said, "saying 'TRUCK!' really helped me fight through the pain and get us home. Great, huh?" I hoped that my ruse would work. I didn't relish getting a call from the boys' school reporting their salty tongues.
And it did work. Big time. About eight months later, my wife and I were walking with my boys as they biked. My older son was ascending a particularly steep hill. Every strenuous pedal, he uttered something under his breath. He was trying to summon the strength to summit the hill. His words were nearly inaudible, meant for his ears alone. I leaned closer to him in an attempt to hear. "Truck, truck, truck," he was saying.
My younger son recently caught me uttering another oath that would not be welcome in most public settings. "Jeez," I said, "will you stop annoying your brother!" "'Jeez?'" my youngest said questioningly, "what's 'jeez'?" "No," I corrected him, "I said cheese. Some cheese, like blue or sharp cheddar, can be really strong. So, I often say 'cheese' when I want to emphasize something." Children can be vexing, and my boys are no different. Occasionally, events are so vexing that a stronger oath is warranted. Last week, after having asked my youngest to get dressed countless times, I lost it. "Jesus Christ!" I said, "can you please GET DRESSED!" As opposed to getting dressed, my boy looked at me. "'Jesus Christ'?" he repeated. I instantly pictured him saying "JESUS CHRIST!" in school, in the grocery store, on the street , during soccer games. It would not reflect well upon my parenting. I had to act quickly. "No," I said in as convincing a voice as I could muster, "I said 'CHEESE AND RICE!' Cheese on rice is a dressing. I was trying to encourage you to get dressed like 'cheese and rice.'" I'm not sure if he bought my explanation, but at least he hasn't offended anyone with his language.
The best example of this from my parenting experience happened four years ago. I was biking both boys (pulling them in a Burley Trailer) in a hail storm. Not surprisingly falling ice tends to make the ground slippery. My bike fell as we crossed over a train track (luckily not one still in use). I fell on my arm and broke it. Needless to say, this hurt a lot. But, we were about four miles from home, and biking was our way to get there. So, I biked. Let me tell you, biking with a broken arm hurts. A lot. At first, I tried to mentally psych myself up for the arduous journey. I imagined Tedy Bruschi (a former linebacker for the Patriots). He plays through the pain all the time, I reasoned; all I had to do was bike through the pain. Easier said than done. The pain was tremendous, and, try as I might to channel my inner Patriot, I am not a tough football player and could not become one as I biked in the hail with a broken arm. Every time I pedaled the pain in my arm throbbed through my entire body. I uttered a curse; shouted it, really. "_UCK!" I shouted. Unable to stop myself, I shouted the curse several more times. Now, despite the pain, I did not forget that I had to be the best stay-at-home father I can be (maybe I'm not tough football player, but certainly a tough stay-at-home dad). I had to do something to address my language. "Boys," I grunted through the pain as I biked, "did you guys hear daddy saying 'truck?' I said it because I'm in pain and need to be as strong as a truck." For the remainder of the painful journey, I repeatedly used the oath that rhymes with truck. Every few moments, I reminded the boys that I was saying truck "for strength." We made it back home. "Wow," I said, "saying 'TRUCK!' really helped me fight through the pain and get us home. Great, huh?" I hoped that my ruse would work. I didn't relish getting a call from the boys' school reporting their salty tongues.
And it did work. Big time. About eight months later, my wife and I were walking with my boys as they biked. My older son was ascending a particularly steep hill. Every strenuous pedal, he uttered something under his breath. He was trying to summon the strength to summit the hill. His words were nearly inaudible, meant for his ears alone. I leaned closer to him in an attempt to hear. "Truck, truck, truck," he was saying.
My younger son recently caught me uttering another oath that would not be welcome in most public settings. "Jeez," I said, "will you stop annoying your brother!" "'Jeez?'" my youngest said questioningly, "what's 'jeez'?" "No," I corrected him, "I said cheese. Some cheese, like blue or sharp cheddar, can be really strong. So, I often say 'cheese' when I want to emphasize something." Children can be vexing, and my boys are no different. Occasionally, events are so vexing that a stronger oath is warranted. Last week, after having asked my youngest to get dressed countless times, I lost it. "Jesus Christ!" I said, "can you please GET DRESSED!" As opposed to getting dressed, my boy looked at me. "'Jesus Christ'?" he repeated. I instantly pictured him saying "JESUS CHRIST!" in school, in the grocery store, on the street , during soccer games. It would not reflect well upon my parenting. I had to act quickly. "No," I said in as convincing a voice as I could muster, "I said 'CHEESE AND RICE!' Cheese on rice is a dressing. I was trying to encourage you to get dressed like 'cheese and rice.'" I'm not sure if he bought my explanation, but at least he hasn't offended anyone with his language.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Dreams
As parents, we are all conditioned to foster our children's dreams. This is good because without aspirations it is difficult to achieve any goals. Yes, we want our kids to "dream big." Mine certainly do,
My boys' current aspirations can be divided into five categories. Dreams about physical characteristics, dreams about higher education, dreams about future occupations, dreams about future houses, and dreams about their future personal lives are preeminent in my boys' thoughts about their destinies.
When it comes to dreams regarding physical characteristics, my boys 'dream big,' literally. Frequently, my older boy talks about his height when he's older. We've agreed that being 8'4 (the height of the tallest man currently living) is a tad much, but my boy is really intrigued by Yao Ming (the center for the Houston Rockets). "He's 7'6, dad, but really strong." I've mentioned that he's frequently injured because it is not good for a human body to be so massive, but my boy is unconvinced. "It would be so cool to be that big, dad. I would totally 'baow' [he does a punching motion, here] anybody." Now, my sister's brother is 6'2, but other than him all our blood relatives are under 6 feet, so my boy's chances at reaching 7'6 are basically nil. (My sister's husband is a quite tall, but his genes will do my son no good). My older boy also likes the idea of being bald ("like Ray Allen or KG"- they actually shave their heads, but who's counting?) Here, his genes actually could help him (I haven't lost my hair, but my wife's father has). My younger son is not as captivated by height, but muscles, as with my older son, certainly appeal to him. Following his bath last night, he busted into the room in which I was sitting, and, fully naked, flexed his muscles. "Look at my muscles, dad," he gushed. "Look at my thin legs. Look at this" (he pointed to where he will develop pectoral muscles in about seven years). After this display, he looked at me very seriously and said, "and if I put my finger in my ear I can hear my heart going really fast." I guess he's not, yet, so focused on musculature that another interesting thought/comment won't occasionally occur to him.
The discussion of future colleges mostly concerns my older son. Although my younger son has expressed an interest in going to a college so long as he could still live with my wife and I. My older son has put more thought into college. He wants to go to a good school, but a good school with good sports teams. He has found that this can sometimes be a problem. "I want to go to MLT," he told me as we played catch the other day. "Do they have a good basketball team?" By MLT, my son was referring to MIT (he's more familiar with the initials MLT; due to Miracle Max from the Princess Bride, who loves MLTs -Mutton Lettuce and Tomato sandwiches). They probably have a basketball team, I told him, but MIT is not known for its athletics. My son stared at me blankly. What good is a college without good sports teams? his eyes asked me. He, then, asked me for a list of excellent places of higher education that also have good sports teams. I believe that I listed the University of Michigan and Duke. "How about your college?" my son asked. "Well," I answered, "we had an excellent squash team." He was not impressed. Not a very sexy sport, squash.
My boys both have strong feelings about what their future careers will be. I have an internal struggle whenever they talk about their desired careers because they seem to be unlikely destinations at best. My older son wants to be a herpetologist and a baseball (or basketball) player. He intends to have a successful show that he'll film in the off-season. And he's going to be a billionaire. The herpetology seems to be a noble and entirely achievable goal. The professional sports career may be harder to come by, but he can always be the first from my family. And a billionaire? Let's face it. This is really a stretch. There just aren't that many billionaires around. My younger son wants to be a zoologist specializing in insects (worms and rollie-pollies) and a ship's captain. And, you guessed it, a billionaire. Again, I find my son's interest in a scientific career laudable, but I worry that he hasn't given enough thought as to how he would budget his time. A scientist and a ship's captain?
My younger boy's choice for a future house corresponds well with his career choice. He wants to live on a ship (assuming the ship has an attached tunnel that leads to our TV room). I haven't, yet, explored with him the engineering struggles that would, no doubt, result from a tunnel that had to stretch from the ocean to our house. My older son's house choice is a tad more excessive. He has wanted to live in a either a castle, fort, hide-out or palace for most of his life (Although he was adamant that he would live in a "shark machine" from the ages of 2 to 4). The housing choices seem unlikely, but, who knows? If both boys are billionaires they can probably afford them.
In terms of their aspirations vis-a-vis their personal life, the boys are fairly united. My older son turned to me as we walked home from school yesterday and, speaking for his brother and himself, said, "we just want to marry foxy dames, dad, like mommy." That much, at least, I know can be achieved.
My boys' current aspirations can be divided into five categories. Dreams about physical characteristics, dreams about higher education, dreams about future occupations, dreams about future houses, and dreams about their future personal lives are preeminent in my boys' thoughts about their destinies.
When it comes to dreams regarding physical characteristics, my boys 'dream big,' literally. Frequently, my older boy talks about his height when he's older. We've agreed that being 8'4 (the height of the tallest man currently living) is a tad much, but my boy is really intrigued by Yao Ming (the center for the Houston Rockets). "He's 7'6, dad, but really strong." I've mentioned that he's frequently injured because it is not good for a human body to be so massive, but my boy is unconvinced. "It would be so cool to be that big, dad. I would totally 'baow' [he does a punching motion, here] anybody." Now, my sister's brother is 6'2, but other than him all our blood relatives are under 6 feet, so my boy's chances at reaching 7'6 are basically nil. (My sister's husband is a quite tall, but his genes will do my son no good). My older boy also likes the idea of being bald ("like Ray Allen or KG"- they actually shave their heads, but who's counting?) Here, his genes actually could help him (I haven't lost my hair, but my wife's father has). My younger son is not as captivated by height, but muscles, as with my older son, certainly appeal to him. Following his bath last night, he busted into the room in which I was sitting, and, fully naked, flexed his muscles. "Look at my muscles, dad," he gushed. "Look at my thin legs. Look at this" (he pointed to where he will develop pectoral muscles in about seven years). After this display, he looked at me very seriously and said, "and if I put my finger in my ear I can hear my heart going really fast." I guess he's not, yet, so focused on musculature that another interesting thought/comment won't occasionally occur to him.
The discussion of future colleges mostly concerns my older son. Although my younger son has expressed an interest in going to a college so long as he could still live with my wife and I. My older son has put more thought into college. He wants to go to a good school, but a good school with good sports teams. He has found that this can sometimes be a problem. "I want to go to MLT," he told me as we played catch the other day. "Do they have a good basketball team?" By MLT, my son was referring to MIT (he's more familiar with the initials MLT; due to Miracle Max from the Princess Bride, who loves MLTs -Mutton Lettuce and Tomato sandwiches). They probably have a basketball team, I told him, but MIT is not known for its athletics. My son stared at me blankly. What good is a college without good sports teams? his eyes asked me. He, then, asked me for a list of excellent places of higher education that also have good sports teams. I believe that I listed the University of Michigan and Duke. "How about your college?" my son asked. "Well," I answered, "we had an excellent squash team." He was not impressed. Not a very sexy sport, squash.
My boys both have strong feelings about what their future careers will be. I have an internal struggle whenever they talk about their desired careers because they seem to be unlikely destinations at best. My older son wants to be a herpetologist and a baseball (or basketball) player. He intends to have a successful show that he'll film in the off-season. And he's going to be a billionaire. The herpetology seems to be a noble and entirely achievable goal. The professional sports career may be harder to come by, but he can always be the first from my family. And a billionaire? Let's face it. This is really a stretch. There just aren't that many billionaires around. My younger son wants to be a zoologist specializing in insects (worms and rollie-pollies) and a ship's captain. And, you guessed it, a billionaire. Again, I find my son's interest in a scientific career laudable, but I worry that he hasn't given enough thought as to how he would budget his time. A scientist and a ship's captain?
My younger boy's choice for a future house corresponds well with his career choice. He wants to live on a ship (assuming the ship has an attached tunnel that leads to our TV room). I haven't, yet, explored with him the engineering struggles that would, no doubt, result from a tunnel that had to stretch from the ocean to our house. My older son's house choice is a tad more excessive. He has wanted to live in a either a castle, fort, hide-out or palace for most of his life (Although he was adamant that he would live in a "shark machine" from the ages of 2 to 4). The housing choices seem unlikely, but, who knows? If both boys are billionaires they can probably afford them.
In terms of their aspirations vis-a-vis their personal life, the boys are fairly united. My older son turned to me as we walked home from school yesterday and, speaking for his brother and himself, said, "we just want to marry foxy dames, dad, like mommy." That much, at least, I know can be achieved.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Post-school challenges
I have described the challenges that daily face the stay-at-home father. I focused on the challenges involved in morning routines/preparing for school. Yesterday's post-school experience made me realize that I had neglected to cover some of the most pressing challenges that a stay-at-home father will face. These hurdles, as I see them, can be grouped into three loose problem categories: the walk home from school, physical violence between brothers, and psychological violence directed at the parental figure. I will offer some suggestions to overcome the obstacles that I mention.
1. The Walk Home
The walk home from school seems an easy-enough prospect. One might guess that my boys, who love their school, would hold on to the happiness that they experienced playing with friends during the day and transpose it onto our walk home. Thus making our brief journey pleasant and care-free. Although this has happened, it usually doesn't. The first road block to my perfect walk-home is well represented by my boys' reticence to discuss what they actually did at school. So often has my "what did you do in school today?" query been rebuffed by silence that I no longer even ask. Instead, I make statements. Ridiculous statements about what might have happened at school that day. "So, was it tough when that gorilla broke into your class and interrupted your teacher?" I have asked. Or "why didn't anyone play with you today?" (I love that question as an option to replace "who did you play with today?"). I get really creative at times: "did your teacher really throw your classmate through a wall? What did they do to warrant such an extreme reaction?" Perhaps I should revert back to traditional questioning. My line of creative questioning met with some initial success, but has been a dud for quite some time. My older boy, already burdened by my uncoolness, seems less impressed with me with every ridiculous question. "Of course that didn't happen," he frequently storms; this is followed by the silent treatment for the rest of the walk home. I turn to my younger child at this point. He sort of likes my ridiculous questions. The problem is he is a master at meeting something ludicrous with yet more absurdity. He'll respond to "how did you respond to the giraffe's chewing the gym teacher's hair?" by saying, "oh, the ROCKING giraffe. Well, he ate the gym teacher's hair, but I thought it was funny so I hit him on the butt [hitting someone or something on the butt is apparently the funniest thing that a pre-K boy can imagine] and he said, 'you're hot like curry; I want to date you. ROCKING BABY. YEAH." Perhaps this is better than an angry, silent treatment, but it does not yield better results in terms of learning what happened in school. I guess I'll have to work on this.
Another major problem that I frequently encounter during walks home can be summed up as the "happy feet" syndrome. My older boy seems to have so much energy that, as we walk home, he spins, jumps, stutter-steps, and dances. Just watching this makes me tired. I'm doubly tired when I have to consider safety (both my son's- ensuring that he doesn't stutter-step into a car- and pedestrians- ensuring that he doesn't spin into a person, possibly knocking them over. My younger son's version of the happy feet syndrome mostly involves his "happy feet" leading him into other people's property. Clearly, my boys feel that we live in a Communist utopia because they feel that they have the right to traverse every lawn that we encounter. It gets fatiguing constantly reminding them that, in this wonderful world of private property, there are rules. Foremost among them: stay off people's property, don't climb their trees, or don't poke in their flowers (even if you're examining some fascinating bug).
Yet another issue. And this delightful challenge seems to be just emerging like the birth of a star, a star that will be sure to fatigue and irritate. The issue? The throwing of coats, lunch boxes, and back packs. This is casually if aggressively done as we walk. My older boy doesn't merely throw these things. He follows through and painfully drags them on the ground. He has scraped the zipper of coats and detached them, scratched/broken back pack zippers, broken water bottles (tin canteens, really) inside his lunch box, and he has succeeded in finding yet another way to make me feel that, to my boys, my words carry the weight of a feather. Though I have to admit, throwing things can be occasionally fun. We have been known to have the occasional pine-cone fight. On the walk home from school, I am typically to focused on our goal of successfully reaching home to engage in such shenanigans.
2. Physical Violence Between Brothers
The second major impediment to a smooth afternoon, post-school experience concerns physical violence. There was a time, not long ago, when every time I looked at them, my older son was punching, pushing or pinching his younger brother. After a brief moment of peace only made possible by giving my older boy a timeout, making him apologize to his brother, and charging him some G-Bucks, the cycle of violence would continue. This is like, and I'm borrowing a phrase of my father's, watching the same bad movie over and over. The brother on brother violence in my house remains unabated, but there has been a significant change. Now, my younger boy is on the attack. He's a crafty one and has realized that even if his constant assaults on his older brother are overwhelmingly unsuccessful, he can still win. This victory occurs when his brother responds with force and gets in trouble. "But he started it," my older boy, now the aggrieved party, indignantly shouts from his time-out. My younger son will often have a small smile on his face upon hearing this. It is often a cruel world for the younger brother, and he's got to make his way any way he can.
3. Psychological Violence: I'M HUNGRY
The final challenge that I will discuss today is, by far, the biggest challenge for me. It involves psychological warfare. In this, my boys work in concert. Their goal: to drive me mad. The main culprit here (I said he was crafty) is my youngest boy. His weapon is a simple request. His completely maddening, yet fool-proof method of attack consists of two simple words: "I'm hungry." When I pick my younger boy up from his class after school, he usually gives me an adorable smile and says, "daddy" (this sounds really cute, and it is, but I now wonder if it isn't part of his master plan to soften me up with loving feelings before he assails me). The next words he says, and this happens every single day, are "I'm hungry." I'm resourceful and people have a soft-spot for stay-at-home fathers, so I am usually successful at getting my boy a quick post-school snack. This usually consists of graham crackers or saltines given me by teachers (although just yesterday, a mother handed me a fruit leather to give to my boy; she was probably thinking someone ought to take me to parenting school). My son's pre-K teacher has shown me a zip-lock bag full of snacks that she keeps for emergencies. My son and I are that emergency EVERY DAY. Still, she is super-gracious about it and doesn't make me feel bad. What kills me is that my boy has figured out that his post-school snack at school is easy for me to get. He doesn't want me to have it too easy. So, the "I'm hungry" refrain begins again as we start to walk home. At first, I am a wall of psychological strength. But my son's "I'm hungry" is the diamond-headed drill that can cut through even the strongest metal. He has perfected the tone of his plea so as to make it viciously effective. I literally cannot block it out. It is my Kryptonite. "I'm hungry," he says as we walk through the front door of our house. His tone is so perfectly pathetic, so maniacally meek, so greatly grating, so unending, so steady in its delivery, so powerful in its results. Much like the tide, there is no stopping it. Once the "I'm hungry" mantra has begun, there is only one conclusion. He will get a snack. The problem is that his plea for food will begin anew an hour after the snack. He gets another snack (because, let's face it, I'm weak), and then he has no room for supper. I have observed friends deal with a similar phenomenon. They seem to handle it with more grace. "I only offer healthy choices like carrots or cucumbers," one friend said to me recently, "they can take it or leave it." If only I was so strong. Perhaps I should wear head-phones that play soothing ocean waves upon entering the house, then my son's pleas would fall on deaf ears. He might turn up the pressure, increasing the desperation of his cries for food, but all I would hear is the wish-wash of ocean waves.
The walk home, the violence between brothers, and the psychological violence visited upon me by my children can be an impediment to the stay-at-home father's bliss. Hopefully, learning of the difficulties that I face can better prepare my readers for potential pit-falls that await them. The greatest stabilizing factor that will prevent the stay-at-home parent's going insane is a very simple one. Love your kids. If that love is a given, then the crazy-making things that kids do will not make you so crazy.
1. The Walk Home
The walk home from school seems an easy-enough prospect. One might guess that my boys, who love their school, would hold on to the happiness that they experienced playing with friends during the day and transpose it onto our walk home. Thus making our brief journey pleasant and care-free. Although this has happened, it usually doesn't. The first road block to my perfect walk-home is well represented by my boys' reticence to discuss what they actually did at school. So often has my "what did you do in school today?" query been rebuffed by silence that I no longer even ask. Instead, I make statements. Ridiculous statements about what might have happened at school that day. "So, was it tough when that gorilla broke into your class and interrupted your teacher?" I have asked. Or "why didn't anyone play with you today?" (I love that question as an option to replace "who did you play with today?"). I get really creative at times: "did your teacher really throw your classmate through a wall? What did they do to warrant such an extreme reaction?" Perhaps I should revert back to traditional questioning. My line of creative questioning met with some initial success, but has been a dud for quite some time. My older boy, already burdened by my uncoolness, seems less impressed with me with every ridiculous question. "Of course that didn't happen," he frequently storms; this is followed by the silent treatment for the rest of the walk home. I turn to my younger child at this point. He sort of likes my ridiculous questions. The problem is he is a master at meeting something ludicrous with yet more absurdity. He'll respond to "how did you respond to the giraffe's chewing the gym teacher's hair?" by saying, "oh, the ROCKING giraffe. Well, he ate the gym teacher's hair, but I thought it was funny so I hit him on the butt [hitting someone or something on the butt is apparently the funniest thing that a pre-K boy can imagine] and he said, 'you're hot like curry; I want to date you. ROCKING BABY. YEAH." Perhaps this is better than an angry, silent treatment, but it does not yield better results in terms of learning what happened in school. I guess I'll have to work on this.
Another major problem that I frequently encounter during walks home can be summed up as the "happy feet" syndrome. My older boy seems to have so much energy that, as we walk home, he spins, jumps, stutter-steps, and dances. Just watching this makes me tired. I'm doubly tired when I have to consider safety (both my son's- ensuring that he doesn't stutter-step into a car- and pedestrians- ensuring that he doesn't spin into a person, possibly knocking them over. My younger son's version of the happy feet syndrome mostly involves his "happy feet" leading him into other people's property. Clearly, my boys feel that we live in a Communist utopia because they feel that they have the right to traverse every lawn that we encounter. It gets fatiguing constantly reminding them that, in this wonderful world of private property, there are rules. Foremost among them: stay off people's property, don't climb their trees, or don't poke in their flowers (even if you're examining some fascinating bug).
Yet another issue. And this delightful challenge seems to be just emerging like the birth of a star, a star that will be sure to fatigue and irritate. The issue? The throwing of coats, lunch boxes, and back packs. This is casually if aggressively done as we walk. My older boy doesn't merely throw these things. He follows through and painfully drags them on the ground. He has scraped the zipper of coats and detached them, scratched/broken back pack zippers, broken water bottles (tin canteens, really) inside his lunch box, and he has succeeded in finding yet another way to make me feel that, to my boys, my words carry the weight of a feather. Though I have to admit, throwing things can be occasionally fun. We have been known to have the occasional pine-cone fight. On the walk home from school, I am typically to focused on our goal of successfully reaching home to engage in such shenanigans.
2. Physical Violence Between Brothers
The second major impediment to a smooth afternoon, post-school experience concerns physical violence. There was a time, not long ago, when every time I looked at them, my older son was punching, pushing or pinching his younger brother. After a brief moment of peace only made possible by giving my older boy a timeout, making him apologize to his brother, and charging him some G-Bucks, the cycle of violence would continue. This is like, and I'm borrowing a phrase of my father's, watching the same bad movie over and over. The brother on brother violence in my house remains unabated, but there has been a significant change. Now, my younger boy is on the attack. He's a crafty one and has realized that even if his constant assaults on his older brother are overwhelmingly unsuccessful, he can still win. This victory occurs when his brother responds with force and gets in trouble. "But he started it," my older boy, now the aggrieved party, indignantly shouts from his time-out. My younger son will often have a small smile on his face upon hearing this. It is often a cruel world for the younger brother, and he's got to make his way any way he can.
3. Psychological Violence: I'M HUNGRY
The final challenge that I will discuss today is, by far, the biggest challenge for me. It involves psychological warfare. In this, my boys work in concert. Their goal: to drive me mad. The main culprit here (I said he was crafty) is my youngest boy. His weapon is a simple request. His completely maddening, yet fool-proof method of attack consists of two simple words: "I'm hungry." When I pick my younger boy up from his class after school, he usually gives me an adorable smile and says, "daddy" (this sounds really cute, and it is, but I now wonder if it isn't part of his master plan to soften me up with loving feelings before he assails me). The next words he says, and this happens every single day, are "I'm hungry." I'm resourceful and people have a soft-spot for stay-at-home fathers, so I am usually successful at getting my boy a quick post-school snack. This usually consists of graham crackers or saltines given me by teachers (although just yesterday, a mother handed me a fruit leather to give to my boy; she was probably thinking someone ought to take me to parenting school). My son's pre-K teacher has shown me a zip-lock bag full of snacks that she keeps for emergencies. My son and I are that emergency EVERY DAY. Still, she is super-gracious about it and doesn't make me feel bad. What kills me is that my boy has figured out that his post-school snack at school is easy for me to get. He doesn't want me to have it too easy. So, the "I'm hungry" refrain begins again as we start to walk home. At first, I am a wall of psychological strength. But my son's "I'm hungry" is the diamond-headed drill that can cut through even the strongest metal. He has perfected the tone of his plea so as to make it viciously effective. I literally cannot block it out. It is my Kryptonite. "I'm hungry," he says as we walk through the front door of our house. His tone is so perfectly pathetic, so maniacally meek, so greatly grating, so unending, so steady in its delivery, so powerful in its results. Much like the tide, there is no stopping it. Once the "I'm hungry" mantra has begun, there is only one conclusion. He will get a snack. The problem is that his plea for food will begin anew an hour after the snack. He gets another snack (because, let's face it, I'm weak), and then he has no room for supper. I have observed friends deal with a similar phenomenon. They seem to handle it with more grace. "I only offer healthy choices like carrots or cucumbers," one friend said to me recently, "they can take it or leave it." If only I was so strong. Perhaps I should wear head-phones that play soothing ocean waves upon entering the house, then my son's pleas would fall on deaf ears. He might turn up the pressure, increasing the desperation of his cries for food, but all I would hear is the wish-wash of ocean waves.
The walk home, the violence between brothers, and the psychological violence visited upon me by my children can be an impediment to the stay-at-home father's bliss. Hopefully, learning of the difficulties that I face can better prepare my readers for potential pit-falls that await them. The greatest stabilizing factor that will prevent the stay-at-home parent's going insane is a very simple one. Love your kids. If that love is a given, then the crazy-making things that kids do will not make you so crazy.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Daily chores of the stay-at-home father
I was talking to my wife this morning, post-work-out. "i am a little worried," I confessed, "I am enjoying writing my blog; what if I run out of things to write about?" She suggested that I write about my stay-at-home father chores.
Let me start with the chore I have already accomplished this morning. Cleaning my eldest son's tortoise's cage. For those of you who have not yet purchased your son (or daughter) a tortoise for his/her six-year old birthday (to be specific to our case), consider my experience. Let me give you the guidance I never had. Tortoises live a very long life. They are not cuddly or particularly cute. They tend to hiss at you (which is particularly fun when the hissing in question is related to one's cleaning the tortoise's disgusting cage). Other than the hissing, our tortoise is completely unresponsive. She's not that messy and she isn't noisy, but the same could be said of the chair in which I am sitting. To sum up, allowing a tortoise into your home is like agreeing to house and feed a fairly aggressive/strongly indifferent free-loader for 75-85 years. This notion is particularly irksome when, every week, I clean the tortoise's cage. To do this takes many steps. First, I fill the bathroom sink with tepid water, add dechlorinating liquid to said water, and place the tortoise in for her bath. I remove the animal's food dish, water dish, and climbing structure for cleaning. I, then, pick-up her cage after carefully placing the various heat lamps that she requires off to the side, and empty the contents of her cage into the outside trash (this is kind of heavy, but getting lighter- thanks again Jillian Michaels). When I mentioned carefully placing her heat lamps to the side, I wasn't kidding. Last summer, I carelessly put her night-time heat lamp on my boys' carpet without assuring that it had been turned off. It burned a perfect circle into my sons' floor. The man who repaired the carpet said that as recently as twenty years ago (before flame-resistant carpet), the carpet would have caught on fire and burned down my house. Back to the cleaning: the emptied cage (tank would be a more accurate term) must then be cleaned with a water/bleach compound. The food dish, water dish, and climbing structure need to be similarly cleaned. It's then on to refilling the cage with Reptibark and Alfalfa "Premium Reptile Bedding." Finally, I put the tortoise back in her cage, reset the heating lamps, and voila, a clean tortoise tank. To be fair, it doesn't take all that much time, but I still find myself bitter. It's the principal that gets me. All this work for a loveless-to-hostile animal that probably perceives me as a moving rock to be avoided.
The Russian Tortoise, my son's creature, hails from the deserts of Afghanistan and Kryzigstan where, I assume, day to day existence must be very difficult. To eke out an existence, one needs to be always focused on survival (leaving little time for being cuddly or cute or in any way endearing) and always prepared to defend oneself (by constantly hissing at stay-at-home fathers). I guess I should count my lucky stars that my children don't come from as bleak a place as my son's tortoise. I don't know if I could handle it if they started to hiss at me.
I do the laundry (seemingly a river that always overfloweth). I change the sheets. (An important note here: when putting pillows in pillow cases never allow the pillow's tag to show through open end of the pillow case. It might not bother you, but it's sure to bother your wife). On the same note, all towels must match. I occasionally try to get a little creative with my color pairings (creative or lazy). Clearly, my wife is not creative enough to share my vision for I am invariably sent back to the bathroom in question to ensure that all towels have the same color. I try to keep the main rooms in our house free of toys, papers, and books. This is most easily done by going on vacation for long periods of time (or in some other way, keeping our children away from house. Perhaps least conducive to my attempts at keeping the house clean is my sons' imagination. Usually, a parent gushes over his or her children's imagination. I see the merit in such a response. Imagination is really cool, but I wish my children's would reveal itself in neater ways. For example, my boys love Star Wars and so, need a steady supply of light-sabers. (The real culprit hear is my youngest who always seems engaged in some life-or-death struggle, slashing away at imaginary enemies). My boys' light-saber of choice is a Lincoln Log. This would be OK if they had chosen one Lincoln Log each. Instead they have used every Lincoln Log in the house. This has resulted in a veritable infestation of Lincoln Logs. On every floor in the house, on every couch (between every pillow of said couch), on every counter, on every bed (in every bed), there are Lincoln Logs. If the Empire ever gets its act together to attack our house, they'll be in trouble because we have an ABUNDANCE of light sabers accessible from anywhere at any time.
The chore that I find myself doing most consistently is dishes. I wash dishes. I do a very nice job at it. My wife and I struck an agreement in the early stages of our courtship. She cooks, I clean. This pact continues to this day. So focused on cleaning have I become that every action that I take in a kitchen is done with the subsequent cleaning in mind. I (and I don't suggest this) refuse to use cutting boards. I don't want to clean them. I also try to limit the amount of dishes that I use whenever I do cook (love that grill). Sadly for me, my wife (who is a wonderful cook) and my children (who love making messes) don't share my parsimonious approach to pot/dish/cutting-board/frying pan usage. For instance, we have fruit after every meal. Now, the cleaning-minded me knows that bananas are the perfect fruit. Hold em in your hand, eat, compost the rind. Same could be said of apples, plums, grapes and countless other choices. Do my boys choose any of these easy-clean fruits? NO. My eldest loves mangos (knives to clean, cutting-boards, extra-scrubbing on the dishes that go in the dish-washer to ensure no caked-on mango). My youngest boy insists on water-mellon or cantaloupe (again with the knives and cutting-boards). To make matters worse, my wife insists on using cutting boards for cutting the bread (the injustice!), she uses multiple (and I'm talking MULTIPLE) dishes and bowls (mixing bowls, mind, not just easy put-in-the-dishwasher bowls) for every meal she cooks. Sure, the food tastes terrific, but there is always an equation flashing inside my head. Does X (enjoyment of the meal) = Y (how many dishes I have to clean). Usually it does. That doesn't mean, however, that I don't yearn for take-out on an almost pathological level. Usually, I clean with a steady, calm forbearance. I like to listen to This American Life (the podcasts) as I clean. It's a great radio program and helps pass the time. Still, every so often I get stressed to near-breaking. The other night my wife cooked artichokes (a true nemesis). I hate the taste of artichokes and I hate the butter-sauce. I particularly hate cleaning meals with artichokes in them. First off, artichokes are never the main dish. So, after I've cleaned the pot where the artichokes were boiled, the cutting board where the stems were cut off, the pot where the butter sauce was made, and the knives that cut the artichokes, I know that I have to clean multiple other pots, dishes, pans, etc. So vexed was I by the injustice that I turned to my wife and snarled, "I feel like this whole cooking thing is just a collusion to make me wash dishes!" Strong words, I know. I blame the artichokes.
I have described stay-at-home fathering as a battle. This is true regarding the chores of a stay-at-home father. Indeed a warrior's bravery, stead-fastness, and valor are required when faced daily with a hissing, ungrateful tortoise, a picky wife, messy (if imaginative) boys and artichokes.
Let me start with the chore I have already accomplished this morning. Cleaning my eldest son's tortoise's cage. For those of you who have not yet purchased your son (or daughter) a tortoise for his/her six-year old birthday (to be specific to our case), consider my experience. Let me give you the guidance I never had. Tortoises live a very long life. They are not cuddly or particularly cute. They tend to hiss at you (which is particularly fun when the hissing in question is related to one's cleaning the tortoise's disgusting cage). Other than the hissing, our tortoise is completely unresponsive. She's not that messy and she isn't noisy, but the same could be said of the chair in which I am sitting. To sum up, allowing a tortoise into your home is like agreeing to house and feed a fairly aggressive/strongly indifferent free-loader for 75-85 years. This notion is particularly irksome when, every week, I clean the tortoise's cage. To do this takes many steps. First, I fill the bathroom sink with tepid water, add dechlorinating liquid to said water, and place the tortoise in for her bath. I remove the animal's food dish, water dish, and climbing structure for cleaning. I, then, pick-up her cage after carefully placing the various heat lamps that she requires off to the side, and empty the contents of her cage into the outside trash (this is kind of heavy, but getting lighter- thanks again Jillian Michaels). When I mentioned carefully placing her heat lamps to the side, I wasn't kidding. Last summer, I carelessly put her night-time heat lamp on my boys' carpet without assuring that it had been turned off. It burned a perfect circle into my sons' floor. The man who repaired the carpet said that as recently as twenty years ago (before flame-resistant carpet), the carpet would have caught on fire and burned down my house. Back to the cleaning: the emptied cage (tank would be a more accurate term) must then be cleaned with a water/bleach compound. The food dish, water dish, and climbing structure need to be similarly cleaned. It's then on to refilling the cage with Reptibark and Alfalfa "Premium Reptile Bedding." Finally, I put the tortoise back in her cage, reset the heating lamps, and voila, a clean tortoise tank. To be fair, it doesn't take all that much time, but I still find myself bitter. It's the principal that gets me. All this work for a loveless-to-hostile animal that probably perceives me as a moving rock to be avoided.
The Russian Tortoise, my son's creature, hails from the deserts of Afghanistan and Kryzigstan where, I assume, day to day existence must be very difficult. To eke out an existence, one needs to be always focused on survival (leaving little time for being cuddly or cute or in any way endearing) and always prepared to defend oneself (by constantly hissing at stay-at-home fathers). I guess I should count my lucky stars that my children don't come from as bleak a place as my son's tortoise. I don't know if I could handle it if they started to hiss at me.
I do the laundry (seemingly a river that always overfloweth). I change the sheets. (An important note here: when putting pillows in pillow cases never allow the pillow's tag to show through open end of the pillow case. It might not bother you, but it's sure to bother your wife). On the same note, all towels must match. I occasionally try to get a little creative with my color pairings (creative or lazy). Clearly, my wife is not creative enough to share my vision for I am invariably sent back to the bathroom in question to ensure that all towels have the same color. I try to keep the main rooms in our house free of toys, papers, and books. This is most easily done by going on vacation for long periods of time (or in some other way, keeping our children away from house. Perhaps least conducive to my attempts at keeping the house clean is my sons' imagination. Usually, a parent gushes over his or her children's imagination. I see the merit in such a response. Imagination is really cool, but I wish my children's would reveal itself in neater ways. For example, my boys love Star Wars and so, need a steady supply of light-sabers. (The real culprit hear is my youngest who always seems engaged in some life-or-death struggle, slashing away at imaginary enemies). My boys' light-saber of choice is a Lincoln Log. This would be OK if they had chosen one Lincoln Log each. Instead they have used every Lincoln Log in the house. This has resulted in a veritable infestation of Lincoln Logs. On every floor in the house, on every couch (between every pillow of said couch), on every counter, on every bed (in every bed), there are Lincoln Logs. If the Empire ever gets its act together to attack our house, they'll be in trouble because we have an ABUNDANCE of light sabers accessible from anywhere at any time.
The chore that I find myself doing most consistently is dishes. I wash dishes. I do a very nice job at it. My wife and I struck an agreement in the early stages of our courtship. She cooks, I clean. This pact continues to this day. So focused on cleaning have I become that every action that I take in a kitchen is done with the subsequent cleaning in mind. I (and I don't suggest this) refuse to use cutting boards. I don't want to clean them. I also try to limit the amount of dishes that I use whenever I do cook (love that grill). Sadly for me, my wife (who is a wonderful cook) and my children (who love making messes) don't share my parsimonious approach to pot/dish/cutting-board/frying pan usage. For instance, we have fruit after every meal. Now, the cleaning-minded me knows that bananas are the perfect fruit. Hold em in your hand, eat, compost the rind. Same could be said of apples, plums, grapes and countless other choices. Do my boys choose any of these easy-clean fruits? NO. My eldest loves mangos (knives to clean, cutting-boards, extra-scrubbing on the dishes that go in the dish-washer to ensure no caked-on mango). My youngest boy insists on water-mellon or cantaloupe (again with the knives and cutting-boards). To make matters worse, my wife insists on using cutting boards for cutting the bread (the injustice!), she uses multiple (and I'm talking MULTIPLE) dishes and bowls (mixing bowls, mind, not just easy put-in-the-dishwasher bowls) for every meal she cooks. Sure, the food tastes terrific, but there is always an equation flashing inside my head. Does X (enjoyment of the meal) = Y (how many dishes I have to clean). Usually it does. That doesn't mean, however, that I don't yearn for take-out on an almost pathological level. Usually, I clean with a steady, calm forbearance. I like to listen to This American Life (the podcasts) as I clean. It's a great radio program and helps pass the time. Still, every so often I get stressed to near-breaking. The other night my wife cooked artichokes (a true nemesis). I hate the taste of artichokes and I hate the butter-sauce. I particularly hate cleaning meals with artichokes in them. First off, artichokes are never the main dish. So, after I've cleaned the pot where the artichokes were boiled, the cutting board where the stems were cut off, the pot where the butter sauce was made, and the knives that cut the artichokes, I know that I have to clean multiple other pots, dishes, pans, etc. So vexed was I by the injustice that I turned to my wife and snarled, "I feel like this whole cooking thing is just a collusion to make me wash dishes!" Strong words, I know. I blame the artichokes.
I have described stay-at-home fathering as a battle. This is true regarding the chores of a stay-at-home father. Indeed a warrior's bravery, stead-fastness, and valor are required when faced daily with a hissing, ungrateful tortoise, a picky wife, messy (if imaginative) boys and artichokes.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Typical Morning
I started this blog a week ago while we were on vacation. I started writing this in an artificial reality where mornings are relaxed without pressures of being somewhere at a certain time. Now, we're back. The pressure-cooker that his a school-day AM. I awoke today at 6AM and exercised. So far, so good. My 30 Day Shred DVD did its job. At the start of the work-out, I felt relaxed (physically tired, but mentally relaxed). During the first two cycles of the Shred, there was no noise in other house other than my labored breathing and Jillian Michaels' women-aimed motivational talk ("Let's Go Ladies!!!!!"). At the start of the third cycle, my calm was disturbed. The third cycle is super-difficult for starters (thus my calm is always a little disturbed at this point), but the true source of my disquiet came from my boys' room. They were awake, they were playing/wrestling/fighting/jumping (it's difficult to tell exactly what the nature of the din was while engaged in traveling push-ups followed by arm-pulls and leg-raises). I persevered, however. I finished the work-out and went upstairs. For that brief moment, the walk up the stairs from our TV room to the main floor, I was an Adonis rising from the depths. Righteous (filled with the righteousness only achieved by the freshly completed work-out), strong, fatigued (the fatigue of a victorious soldier) and sweaty: in short, Greek-God like. Sadly, my Greek-God like status was fleeting. As I stepped off the stairs into our dining room/living room area, I was greeted by some very mortal concerns. The tumult from my boys' room thundered on. Questions flashed through my mind. What time was it? What was the state of my children's preparation for school? Were they dressed? A crash and a scream echoed through the house. Were they hurt? Laughter from the boys. Had they broken anything? (We have a nice King-sized bed that is held up on various little stilts; it is sort of fragile- my boys love to jump on it). I took a deep breath. Show-time, baby. If I were talking to my boys, I might have said, "LETS DO THIS" to gain the energy to face whatever chaos was awaiting me. But as I mentioned in yesterday's posting, I am not really a LET'S DO THIS guy, so I sighed heavily and went into the battle zone.
Predictably enough the battle zone had morphed from my son's room to my wife and my room. Also predictable, my boys were jumping on my aforementioned fragile bed. "Guys," I exasperatedly questioned, "what do I always tell you about mommy and my bed?!!!?!!?"
"Not to jump on it," my oldest quickly responded, "we're not jumping, we're doing somersaults off the end of your bed not jumping on it!!" He proceeded to show me. It looked an awful lot like jumping to me, but I guess he had a point; it wasn't actual jumping on the bed. "Alright," I said, "that looked really cool. Now let's get ready for school." (I tried to use some of my trademark enthusiasm, here. But, honestly, 'let's get ready for school' is a hard-sell, enthusiasm-wise.
"Hey," my youngest protested, "you didn't watch me." He, then, took his turn assuring the imminent death of our lovely bed. "Great move," I said after he had jumped/somersaulted off my bed, "time to get dressed for school."
"Why," he provocatively asked, a glint in his eye saying "you can't possibly believe I'm going to make this easy on you?"
"Because I said so, you little twerp," I thought in my head. I said, "because it's school. Aren't you excited to see your friends?"
"I hate school," he said, just keeping me on my toes, and traveled toward his room. There, his brother was till in his pajamas and he was ready to rumble. "Daddy," I heard not a nano-second after my youngest had reached his room, "Lion!!!!!!" Lion is my youngest's favorite stuffed animal; he adores it. So, his older brother frequently steals lion, irritating both my youngest son and me in one swift move.
"Guys," I said, "if you are dressed before I'm out of the shower, you both get a G-Buck (we have a currency in our house that awards good behavior). Hopefully, this got their attention, but one can never assume anything in the frenetic battle of stay-at-home fathering.
I took my shower. In the shower, I began to mentally compose this posting. What would the outcome be, I wondered. The door to the bathroom opened, my question was answered. My oldest boy entered the room. He looked pleased, fully dressed and ready for school. "You owe me some G-Bucks, dad," he said. My younger boy entered next. "Don't I look FOXY," he asked with a smile. "ROCKING BABY," I answered.
Predictably enough the battle zone had morphed from my son's room to my wife and my room. Also predictable, my boys were jumping on my aforementioned fragile bed. "Guys," I exasperatedly questioned, "what do I always tell you about mommy and my bed?!!!?!!?"
"Not to jump on it," my oldest quickly responded, "we're not jumping, we're doing somersaults off the end of your bed not jumping on it!!" He proceeded to show me. It looked an awful lot like jumping to me, but I guess he had a point; it wasn't actual jumping on the bed. "Alright," I said, "that looked really cool. Now let's get ready for school." (I tried to use some of my trademark enthusiasm, here. But, honestly, 'let's get ready for school' is a hard-sell, enthusiasm-wise.
"Hey," my youngest protested, "you didn't watch me." He, then, took his turn assuring the imminent death of our lovely bed. "Great move," I said after he had jumped/somersaulted off my bed, "time to get dressed for school."
"Why," he provocatively asked, a glint in his eye saying "you can't possibly believe I'm going to make this easy on you?"
"Because I said so, you little twerp," I thought in my head. I said, "because it's school. Aren't you excited to see your friends?"
"I hate school," he said, just keeping me on my toes, and traveled toward his room. There, his brother was till in his pajamas and he was ready to rumble. "Daddy," I heard not a nano-second after my youngest had reached his room, "Lion!!!!!!" Lion is my youngest's favorite stuffed animal; he adores it. So, his older brother frequently steals lion, irritating both my youngest son and me in one swift move.
"Guys," I said, "if you are dressed before I'm out of the shower, you both get a G-Buck (we have a currency in our house that awards good behavior). Hopefully, this got their attention, but one can never assume anything in the frenetic battle of stay-at-home fathering.
I took my shower. In the shower, I began to mentally compose this posting. What would the outcome be, I wondered. The door to the bathroom opened, my question was answered. My oldest boy entered the room. He looked pleased, fully dressed and ready for school. "You owe me some G-Bucks, dad," he said. My younger boy entered next. "Don't I look FOXY," he asked with a smile. "ROCKING BABY," I answered.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Enthusiasm
I am so excited to write this post that I feel as if I am about to burst. I am having trouble containing my feelings regarding the upcoming subject.... That is a form of enthusiasm, true. But it is not my preferred form of enthusiasm. I do not like to describe my excited feelings in a staid, placid way. No, mine is the enthusiasm of "LET'S DO THIS!" or "GET SICK WITH THIS" or "PASSING ON YOUR LEFT SUGAR BUNS, WHOOOOOO" (I recently hollered this as my younger son and I passed my wife during a bike ride- it was thrilling). The interesting thing about my preferred expression of enthusiasm is that it does not really represent who I am. I am not a "LET'S DO THIS" guy. I'm a 'do your best!' guy. But, when utilizing enthusiasm to encourage and entertain your boys, it's full-tilt or no-tilt.
Enthusiasm is great. First off, it's fun to be enthusiastic. It's also a great way to recharge waning energy (in oneself as in others). I will frequently find myself exhausted and a tad bored when challenged to a Nerf-sword battle or a basketball game or a whiffle ball game. But I enjoy these activities. To gain the energy I need, I'll below "I'm gonna CRUSH YOU FOOLS" or something to that effect. The boys love it. I get the extra boost to engage in the mortal combat that is stay-at-home fathering. It's a win-win. It's also frequently very funny. My youngest son just walked up to me, literally a second ago, put his arm around my neck, and growled (how's that for enthusiastic) "You're a foxy dude. You're a foxy baby. I've got a crush on you. Let's go on a date. You're hot like curry." All this, completely unprovoked, unsolicited raw enthusiasm. It didn't make much sense, but what a way to relate! Also relevant is a comment that my older son just made to my wife. "Hey mommy," he shouted at her with great zeal, "the potatoes are growing!" I, myself, am no gardener; it does not get my juices flowing. But my wife likes to do it, my boys like to do it, and enthusiasm is a river running through it. I know that many of you may be alienated by my description of enthusiasm. Perhaps you're thinking (and you wouldn't be totally wrong), 'what a freak this father is!!" All that energy. I am not comfortable/willing to expend such energy when I could relate to my child in an equally effective, less energy-intensive way. For you, I present an example of enthusiasm used to calm a rowdy crowd. We just returned from a great trip to my parents' house. My sister was there as was her awesome family. She has two boys, we have two boys. This may come as a surprise to you, but young boys of the same basic age tend to wrestle. This is not always a good fit; my parents have a wonderful house, but it is not entirely wrestle-ready. Before the boys (my boys and my nephews) could destroy my parents' living-room, I decided to settle things down using, wait for it, enthusiasm. Now, I had to be subtle here. Had I approached these four little beasts (I say that with great love) with a "I'M GONNA CRUSH YOU SUCKERS!" or "BE PREPARED TO GET SETTLED" (I have endless aggressive phrases that I save for people at-least one fifth my age) there would not have been a good outcome. The four cousins, working together with joyful barbarity could probably have CRUSHed or SETTLEd me. Instead, I sat them on the couch and told them about Lythington Battler, a heroic Bard with several good friends (all awesome fighters, duh!). I started telling these stories to my boys before bedtime or when I need to pacify them in a car. Anyhow, this particular story required a great deal of energy to, paradoxically, reduce the energy of the four cousins. I told the story, along with physical demonstrations (in slow-motion and with bone-crushing sound effects) of the physical feats of Lythington and his friends (called the Companions). Transfixed, the boys watched as I swung my leg to demonstrate Dasbey the Thief's knocking out four brigands or punched super-fast (thanks Jillian Michaels) to show how Ozin dispatched the eight brigands he faced or performed the nature-magic of Ranthor of Gilgamesh or did the body-twisting kicks of Lythington himself. The point is, it took energy to tell the story. More than that, it took enthusiasm to tell it well. And the good story-telling and awesome physical displays (shout out to me) successfully diffused the boys' energy (for a brief while) and save my parents' living room from some pounding.
I think that I've done a good job presenting the positives that enthusiasm can have on parenting. To be fair, there can be pit-falls. Think of life as a balance. Positive outpourings of emotion are often balanced by negative ones. My youngest son displays this with unerring consistency at dinner every night. If he is offered anything other than a peanut butter and honey sandwich, he protests, with GREAT enthusiasm: "I HATE .... (fill in the blank here; it could be any food including something that he LOVED just a moment before). If nothing else, it makes dinner interesting. My older likes to enthusiastically share his pain. Last night, we departed a plane at what felt like 2:20AM (due to time-change). He walked through the airport nearly screaming his discomfort (much to pleasure, I'm sure, of the other passengers who were equally tired). Enthusiasm can also be dangerous when experienced during a wrestling match. My boys are athletic and tenacious (a physical form of enthusiasm). This combined with my already tired body results in actual bodily pain (different from the usual psychological perils of stay-at-home fathering).
Still, the good out-ways the bad. Using enthusiasm, we enjoy ourselves, we apply ourselves with greater conviction toward projects or causes (Go Sox!), we even divert the potentially destructive (literally not figuratively) energy of young boys. Sure, there can be some negative side-effects of an enthusiastic approach to parenting. But I still count it as an essential tool for the daily caring for one's brood.
Enthusiasm is great. First off, it's fun to be enthusiastic. It's also a great way to recharge waning energy (in oneself as in others). I will frequently find myself exhausted and a tad bored when challenged to a Nerf-sword battle or a basketball game or a whiffle ball game. But I enjoy these activities. To gain the energy I need, I'll below "I'm gonna CRUSH YOU FOOLS" or something to that effect. The boys love it. I get the extra boost to engage in the mortal combat that is stay-at-home fathering. It's a win-win. It's also frequently very funny. My youngest son just walked up to me, literally a second ago, put his arm around my neck, and growled (how's that for enthusiastic) "You're a foxy dude. You're a foxy baby. I've got a crush on you. Let's go on a date. You're hot like curry." All this, completely unprovoked, unsolicited raw enthusiasm. It didn't make much sense, but what a way to relate! Also relevant is a comment that my older son just made to my wife. "Hey mommy," he shouted at her with great zeal, "the potatoes are growing!" I, myself, am no gardener; it does not get my juices flowing. But my wife likes to do it, my boys like to do it, and enthusiasm is a river running through it. I know that many of you may be alienated by my description of enthusiasm. Perhaps you're thinking (and you wouldn't be totally wrong), 'what a freak this father is!!" All that energy. I am not comfortable/willing to expend such energy when I could relate to my child in an equally effective, less energy-intensive way. For you, I present an example of enthusiasm used to calm a rowdy crowd. We just returned from a great trip to my parents' house. My sister was there as was her awesome family. She has two boys, we have two boys. This may come as a surprise to you, but young boys of the same basic age tend to wrestle. This is not always a good fit; my parents have a wonderful house, but it is not entirely wrestle-ready. Before the boys (my boys and my nephews) could destroy my parents' living-room, I decided to settle things down using, wait for it, enthusiasm. Now, I had to be subtle here. Had I approached these four little beasts (I say that with great love) with a "I'M GONNA CRUSH YOU SUCKERS!" or "BE PREPARED TO GET SETTLED" (I have endless aggressive phrases that I save for people at-least one fifth my age) there would not have been a good outcome. The four cousins, working together with joyful barbarity could probably have CRUSHed or SETTLEd me. Instead, I sat them on the couch and told them about Lythington Battler, a heroic Bard with several good friends (all awesome fighters, duh!). I started telling these stories to my boys before bedtime or when I need to pacify them in a car. Anyhow, this particular story required a great deal of energy to, paradoxically, reduce the energy of the four cousins. I told the story, along with physical demonstrations (in slow-motion and with bone-crushing sound effects) of the physical feats of Lythington and his friends (called the Companions). Transfixed, the boys watched as I swung my leg to demonstrate Dasbey the Thief's knocking out four brigands or punched super-fast (thanks Jillian Michaels) to show how Ozin dispatched the eight brigands he faced or performed the nature-magic of Ranthor of Gilgamesh or did the body-twisting kicks of Lythington himself. The point is, it took energy to tell the story. More than that, it took enthusiasm to tell it well. And the good story-telling and awesome physical displays (shout out to me) successfully diffused the boys' energy (for a brief while) and save my parents' living room from some pounding.
I think that I've done a good job presenting the positives that enthusiasm can have on parenting. To be fair, there can be pit-falls. Think of life as a balance. Positive outpourings of emotion are often balanced by negative ones. My youngest son displays this with unerring consistency at dinner every night. If he is offered anything other than a peanut butter and honey sandwich, he protests, with GREAT enthusiasm: "I HATE .... (fill in the blank here; it could be any food including something that he LOVED just a moment before). If nothing else, it makes dinner interesting. My older likes to enthusiastically share his pain. Last night, we departed a plane at what felt like 2:20AM (due to time-change). He walked through the airport nearly screaming his discomfort (much to pleasure, I'm sure, of the other passengers who were equally tired). Enthusiasm can also be dangerous when experienced during a wrestling match. My boys are athletic and tenacious (a physical form of enthusiasm). This combined with my already tired body results in actual bodily pain (different from the usual psychological perils of stay-at-home fathering).
Still, the good out-ways the bad. Using enthusiasm, we enjoy ourselves, we apply ourselves with greater conviction toward projects or causes (Go Sox!), we even divert the potentially destructive (literally not figuratively) energy of young boys. Sure, there can be some negative side-effects of an enthusiastic approach to parenting. But I still count it as an essential tool for the daily caring for one's brood.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Ensuring that you're children are hip
I want to start this blog with a comment related to a previous posting. I just finished playing Red Sox Monopoly with my boys. Now, I was getting crushed. My eldest kept landing on Free Parking and had amassed a considerable fortune. I was nearly broke. But, I was happy. My child would feel good about the experience (and my competitive instincts were in check). (At this point my younger boy had quit). Then, (be still my beating heart) I made a tremendous come-back. I was avoiding the many costly properties that my boy possessed. I was gaining properties, making dollars (can you hear my pulse quickening through the computer?) There was a very good chance that I was going to make the most improbable of improbable comebacks (I'm not counting the Sox comeback against the Yankees in 2004). But I reined myself in. I actively sabotaged my efforts. When luck continued to go my way, I suggested that we count our money and declare a winner (My boy, as I mentioned, was in the black and easily won). Good stay-at-home fathering? I think so.
Today's posting relates to successful attempts to make one's children cool. Now, I'm coming at this from a radical angle. Obviously, every good parent loves his or her children. He or she accepts them for who they are, fosters their strengths, supports them with trouble areas. A parent (in this case, a father) should love his children for who they are. But that's not to say we shouldn't give them an edge. A hipper child, for lack of a better term, a cooler child will have an easier experience in life. But how to assure this coolness? I can only focus on my boys, but, luckily, they're very cool. Sure, they can occasionally act a tad immature, but they will grow out of this. They won't outgrow, however, the surplus of cool that I have been instilling within them since they were babies. How did I do this? I started with music. From the moment they entered our house, my boys have been inundated with cool music. I used to rock my eldest to sleep with the soothing beats of Jay-Z, Shaggy or Notorious BIG. I remember feeding my younger boy as U2 blasted in the background. One night last summer while my wife was still at work, the boys and I rocked out to the Jam at full blast. (The Jam, for those of you know not in the know, are the quintessential Ska band). Flight of the Conchords (an awesome band from New Zealand) is one of their favorites. K'Naan, the Somali rapper, is my boys' current favorite. The point is I started with cool music, and this somehow spread to the coolness of my boys. Next, I started to subtly infuse my discussions with my boys with cool phrases (My eldest boy just turned to me and, referencing the Fantastic Four, said, "dad, how did they get so dope?" My youngest started referring to things he liked by saying, "rocking, baby" or "funky, momma" (said with just the right inflection to be both cute and cool). So, the infusions of coolness started with music, spread to language, and then, subtly, began to infiltrate my boys' whole approach to life. I added some cool clothes. Patriots jerseys, Red Sox gear, and soccer jerseys. Recently, my eldest went out with my wife to buy new shoes. He came back with a pair of Adidas. Brand name shoes! What could be cooler?!?!! He never used to put any consideration into his shoes. A grand new era of coolness has begun. My sons' gait (this is particularly true of my eldest) has developed a definite swagger. He had always been popular at school, but began receiving multiple calls from girls. (I realize that this is inappropriate for second graders, but come on, it's cool).
Now, I know that there are many readers out there who like less cool music (read: folk or country), don't like sports, and would prefer Birkenstocks to Nike Airs. Feel no fear. Not all is lost. The key to a child's success lies in a healthy ego developed by love, support, structure, and consistency. A child's success should be every parents' goal, but why not help a successful child be a cool one, too?
Today's posting relates to successful attempts to make one's children cool. Now, I'm coming at this from a radical angle. Obviously, every good parent loves his or her children. He or she accepts them for who they are, fosters their strengths, supports them with trouble areas. A parent (in this case, a father) should love his children for who they are. But that's not to say we shouldn't give them an edge. A hipper child, for lack of a better term, a cooler child will have an easier experience in life. But how to assure this coolness? I can only focus on my boys, but, luckily, they're very cool. Sure, they can occasionally act a tad immature, but they will grow out of this. They won't outgrow, however, the surplus of cool that I have been instilling within them since they were babies. How did I do this? I started with music. From the moment they entered our house, my boys have been inundated with cool music. I used to rock my eldest to sleep with the soothing beats of Jay-Z, Shaggy or Notorious BIG. I remember feeding my younger boy as U2 blasted in the background. One night last summer while my wife was still at work, the boys and I rocked out to the Jam at full blast. (The Jam, for those of you know not in the know, are the quintessential Ska band). Flight of the Conchords (an awesome band from New Zealand) is one of their favorites. K'Naan, the Somali rapper, is my boys' current favorite. The point is I started with cool music, and this somehow spread to the coolness of my boys. Next, I started to subtly infuse my discussions with my boys with cool phrases (My eldest boy just turned to me and, referencing the Fantastic Four, said, "dad, how did they get so dope?" My youngest started referring to things he liked by saying, "rocking, baby" or "funky, momma" (said with just the right inflection to be both cute and cool). So, the infusions of coolness started with music, spread to language, and then, subtly, began to infiltrate my boys' whole approach to life. I added some cool clothes. Patriots jerseys, Red Sox gear, and soccer jerseys. Recently, my eldest went out with my wife to buy new shoes. He came back with a pair of Adidas. Brand name shoes! What could be cooler?!?!! He never used to put any consideration into his shoes. A grand new era of coolness has begun. My sons' gait (this is particularly true of my eldest) has developed a definite swagger. He had always been popular at school, but began receiving multiple calls from girls. (I realize that this is inappropriate for second graders, but come on, it's cool).
Now, I know that there are many readers out there who like less cool music (read: folk or country), don't like sports, and would prefer Birkenstocks to Nike Airs. Feel no fear. Not all is lost. The key to a child's success lies in a healthy ego developed by love, support, structure, and consistency. A child's success should be every parents' goal, but why not help a successful child be a cool one, too?
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Sports- Competing with your children
As I've posted earlier, I love sports and frequently play with my children. This, in itself, is very admirable. I frequently receive l smiles from people who pass me while I play baseball catch with my boys. The people's smiles say "how nice! I remember playing with my dad (or my kids." I get similar smiles when people see me playing tennis with my boys or whiffle ball. Would they smile if they got a closer look at my athletic encounters with my sons? What is the potentially unsavory underbelly of the Norman Rockwell-esque scenes of my playing sports with my boys? My competitive side (which I usually keep well hidden). For example, whenever I play basketball with my boys, I, of course, let them win. Even though I make this decidedly good-parenting choice, there is always an internal struggle. For every time that I give them an extra shot or allow them to foul or let them travel, there is a part of me that is keeping tally of the injustices. When the game is over, and my boys have won, there is an immature part of me that wails, "but, it's not fair! They didn't play by the rules! I should have won!" This is the internal struggle in the mind of the thirty-eight year old father watching his eight and five year old boys rejoice in victory. I wonder if I would receive so many smiles admiring my interaction with my kids if the passersby knew what a struggle it is for me to let my children beat me (keep in mind the children in question are thirty and thirty-three years my junior). Still, I keep on a brave face in public and people appreciate my spending time with my children and never realize the pangs of distress that my losing to them creates. This even permeates my other athletic activities (not just basketball). "That was a terrible throw," my eight year-old will fume as my football pass to him sails over his head. "You need to elevate, man!" I storm back, "I threw it high so it wouldn't be intercepted." The more mature father would probably have responded with, "sorry, pal. I'll make it lower next time." Not me. Not by a long shot. The injustice of my son's words is too great for me to swallow. I mean, taken pass for pass, my throws are far more catchable than his! (deep breathing, reminding myself who's the adult).
Just today, I was playing baseball with him. I threw a ball that went over his head (but not by that much!). "Dad," he bellowed, "terrible throw!." "Hey," I reminded him, the model of maturity, "during a baseball game do batters hit the ball to you!??!?? Or do you have to MOVE YOUR FEET!" Again, very mature, very paternal.
Luckily, my public persona as the nurturing father playing sports with his kids easily survives any scrutiny I receive on the street. People walking by continue to be impressed by the image of a father having a catch with his son. How caring! How lovely! How paternal! (I just hope that my boys keep my secret).
Just today, I was playing baseball with him. I threw a ball that went over his head (but not by that much!). "Dad," he bellowed, "terrible throw!." "Hey," I reminded him, the model of maturity, "during a baseball game do batters hit the ball to you!??!?? Or do you have to MOVE YOUR FEET!" Again, very mature, very paternal.
Luckily, my public persona as the nurturing father playing sports with his kids easily survives any scrutiny I receive on the street. People walking by continue to be impressed by the image of a father having a catch with his son. How caring! How lovely! How paternal! (I just hope that my boys keep my secret).
Books
This year I have discovered something which is, perhaps, not terribly enlightening. Boys love potty humor. Thus, the adventures of Captain Underpants have been a great success in our home. At first, I wanted to resist the books. I thought they were a tad inappropriate. But, I saw how much my boys liked the books, how they encouraged my eldest to read, and that they are genuinely funny. The books describe the adventures of Harold and George, two third-grade boys from the Jerome Horowitz Elementary school. They write comics about a hero named Captain Underpants. Through a series of misadventures, the boys' principal, Mr. Krupp, is turned into Captain Underpants whenever someone snaps his or her fingers. Each book details a story in which the boys, with Captain Underpants' help save both the school and the universe. What's not to love about a book featuring a villain named Professor P. Poopypants?
Another series of books that my boys love is a throwback to my youth. The Adventures of Tin Tin chronicle the exploits of an ageless (the books were written over several decades and he, literally, never ages) reporter/adventurer. Tintin and his friends, Captain Haddock, Professor Cuthbert Calculus, and the police duo Thomson and Thompson are hysterical. The stories are less edgy (read less-potty humor) than Captain Underpants, so this may represent a good alternative for those of view who object to the basic premise of Captain Underpants.
There are, obviously, countless excellent books out there for your children. I only list two here that my boys currently enjoy. The Thomas the Train books are great for younger kids. Superhero or Star Wars books are also a big hit at our home.
There is only one serious caution that I would include here. Be careful not to read books to your children that might not be age-a-appropriate. My wife and I loved all the Harry Potter books. We started to read these books to our eldest. The first books (which were intended for younger readers) were huge successes. However, as Harry Potter's adventures became scarier, my son had a harder and harder time falling asleep. I was worried that he was experiencing some sort of night terrors or significant anxiety related to his day. It turned out when we stopped reading Harry Potter (we were on the last book), he started to sleep easy again.
We will wait a few years before we try to read Harry Potter again. In a couple of years, I also plan to introduce Susan Cooper's, The Dark Is Rising books. I loved these books as a child. I was in fifth grade when I read them so my boys are still too young.
Another series of books that my boys love is a throwback to my youth. The Adventures of Tin Tin chronicle the exploits of an ageless (the books were written over several decades and he, literally, never ages) reporter/adventurer. Tintin and his friends, Captain Haddock, Professor Cuthbert Calculus, and the police duo Thomson and Thompson are hysterical. The stories are less edgy (read less-potty humor) than Captain Underpants, so this may represent a good alternative for those of view who object to the basic premise of Captain Underpants.
There are, obviously, countless excellent books out there for your children. I only list two here that my boys currently enjoy. The Thomas the Train books are great for younger kids. Superhero or Star Wars books are also a big hit at our home.
There is only one serious caution that I would include here. Be careful not to read books to your children that might not be age-a-appropriate. My wife and I loved all the Harry Potter books. We started to read these books to our eldest. The first books (which were intended for younger readers) were huge successes. However, as Harry Potter's adventures became scarier, my son had a harder and harder time falling asleep. I was worried that he was experiencing some sort of night terrors or significant anxiety related to his day. It turned out when we stopped reading Harry Potter (we were on the last book), he started to sleep easy again.
We will wait a few years before we try to read Harry Potter again. In a couple of years, I also plan to introduce Susan Cooper's, The Dark Is Rising books. I loved these books as a child. I was in fifth grade when I read them so my boys are still too young.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Television
As I posted earlier, one of my passions is exercise. This, I believe, is essential for the happy existence of the stay-at-home father (parent, really). I have another passion which is, oddly, at complete odds with exercise. TV. Boy, do I love TV. I also feel that, properly utilized, TV can be a constructive tool for the stay-at-home father. Now, when I say that I love TV, I mean I LOVE TV. My understanding of television shows and the whole TV universe is so nuanced that I could write a blog entirely about TV. Several blogs in fact!
In this post, I will present my formula for successful TV watching with kids. Just for kicks, I'll describe my guide for successful TV watching with my wife, as well (I told you that my TV knowledge was nuanced). I should start out by emphasizing that a child's age has, obviously, a significant influence on what is appropriate. My boys are too old for Sesame Street, for example. But there are shows aimed at preschool kids that can still interest them. Sid the Science Kid (on PBS) is an example of such a show. Super Wy (short for super Wyatt, I believe) and the Super Readers is another show aimed at younger kids which will occasionally catch my boys' attention. Although these shows have occasional success with my boys, Animal Planet is the real star in my children's TV life (Discovery Planet, as well). My boys love the Jeff Corwin Show. He's a snake expert who also focusses on other cool animals. He travels around the world and focusses on the animal life there (from whales to eagles, from pythons to lions, gorillas to crocodiles. An equally successful show in my house, Escape to Chimp Eden documents the efforts at the Jane Goodall Center in South Africa where they are attempting to reintroduce domesticated chimps to the wild. The protagonist of this show first rescues the chimp in question from captivity, then transports them to the Jane Goodall Center, and introduces the chimp to the group of rescued chimps already there. Many shows focus on the politics of the chimp troop at the center. It's a really interesting, exciting, and touching show. My boys are both educated and entertained by it. Big Cat Diary is an awesome BBC show documenting the daily trials (and believe me, it's not easy being a lion, let alone a cheetah or leopard) of lions, cheetahs, and leopards. Among the Pride is another awesome show. In it, an animal trainer who works with big cats in the US is hired by a game reserve in Namibia. There, a group of lions is acting too aggressively towards the tourists who visit the reserve. The pride will be put down if they continue to pose a threat to tourists (the economic lifeblood of Namibia). This show sounds a tad contrived, but it is thrilling and quite interesting. Wild Recon is another cool show on Animal Planet. The host is Donald Schultz, a South African herpatologist (snake expert?) who travels the world collecting snake venom to be used by pharmaceutical companies to make medicine. All his shows contain snake footage, but he discusses other animals, as well. These shows are awesome because my boys are entertained and informed by them. As am I. More than merely entertaining the boys and I, they give us (I'm actually the only one who needs this) a break from the sports/play fighting/other fun activities that exhaust me so. I have the added pleasure of feeling that I'm being a good parent because the shows are pro-social and non-violent. All in all, a big win/win situation ("remember to attach the flow of oxygen to yourself before assisting others"). What sort of a stay-at-home father would I be if I was always so tired that I was grouchy? A less fun one, a less effective one. TV helps me be the best dad I can be.
To be totally truthful, sometimes the allure of On-Demand cable becomes too strong. Caving to empassioned pleas of my children, I will put on a cartoon like the Batman, Batman beyond, the X-men or Spiderman. This invariably leads to my youngest asking disturbing questions that indicate the slow and potent process of his being de-sensitized to violence. I'm not perfect, OK? But I do stick to Animal Planet most of the time.
I also left out a significant portion of my TV watching. Sports games. What can be more bonding than a father and his sons sharing in the joys of watching the success of Boston Sports. The one caution I would add here regards one's level of sports fanaticism. I, for example, am incapable of watching any of the sports that I truly enjoy without getting so caught up in the action that I behave immaturely (to put it mildly). I guess one positive is that I have mirrored such inappropriately, immature behavior while watching the Patriots/Red Sox/Celtics that my eight-year old is a pillar of maturity in comparison. He has, on occasion, sent me from the room to "catch my cool" before I can return.
In terms of show that I consider wife-friendly (and I need to add that my wife, a strong and independent woman if ever there was one, is a complete weenie when it comes to TV. With her, I can only watch sitcoms with a hopeful slant (i.e. no Married with Children or similarly grim shows). With her, I watch(ed) the Gilmore Girls (which I admitted earlier is one of my favorite all time shows), Scrubs, Friends, 30 Rock, Parenthood, the Office, Better off Ted, etc. You get the picture. The grittier shows, which I do enjoy (Damages,24, Justified, Nip/Tuck) I watch on my own. I need to send a very hearty shout-out to my wife in one regard. I convinced her to watch Lost via Netflix. She LOVED it, and we continue to watch it. (I tried getting her hooked on 24 in a similar manner, but she found the show too stressful).
TV is fun. It is relaxing. It can be used with children if done so judiciously. (Try to avoid Man versus Shark on Animal Planet; it might freak your kids out). A similar careful consideration of TV options is useful with one's wife. But if you're a dedicated TV watcher, you'll make time for the grittier shows so essential to the TV experience.
As a final comment. If you don't have a TIVO, you should really get one. Using the wonders of TIVO, one can fulfill the duties of good parenting/good being-a-good-husband (i.e. proper bedtime rituals/going to bed early when your wife is "TVied out") and never miss a show.
In this post, I will present my formula for successful TV watching with kids. Just for kicks, I'll describe my guide for successful TV watching with my wife, as well (I told you that my TV knowledge was nuanced). I should start out by emphasizing that a child's age has, obviously, a significant influence on what is appropriate. My boys are too old for Sesame Street, for example. But there are shows aimed at preschool kids that can still interest them. Sid the Science Kid (on PBS) is an example of such a show. Super Wy (short for super Wyatt, I believe) and the Super Readers is another show aimed at younger kids which will occasionally catch my boys' attention. Although these shows have occasional success with my boys, Animal Planet is the real star in my children's TV life (Discovery Planet, as well). My boys love the Jeff Corwin Show. He's a snake expert who also focusses on other cool animals. He travels around the world and focusses on the animal life there (from whales to eagles, from pythons to lions, gorillas to crocodiles. An equally successful show in my house, Escape to Chimp Eden documents the efforts at the Jane Goodall Center in South Africa where they are attempting to reintroduce domesticated chimps to the wild. The protagonist of this show first rescues the chimp in question from captivity, then transports them to the Jane Goodall Center, and introduces the chimp to the group of rescued chimps already there. Many shows focus on the politics of the chimp troop at the center. It's a really interesting, exciting, and touching show. My boys are both educated and entertained by it. Big Cat Diary is an awesome BBC show documenting the daily trials (and believe me, it's not easy being a lion, let alone a cheetah or leopard) of lions, cheetahs, and leopards. Among the Pride is another awesome show. In it, an animal trainer who works with big cats in the US is hired by a game reserve in Namibia. There, a group of lions is acting too aggressively towards the tourists who visit the reserve. The pride will be put down if they continue to pose a threat to tourists (the economic lifeblood of Namibia). This show sounds a tad contrived, but it is thrilling and quite interesting. Wild Recon is another cool show on Animal Planet. The host is Donald Schultz, a South African herpatologist (snake expert?) who travels the world collecting snake venom to be used by pharmaceutical companies to make medicine. All his shows contain snake footage, but he discusses other animals, as well. These shows are awesome because my boys are entertained and informed by them. As am I. More than merely entertaining the boys and I, they give us (I'm actually the only one who needs this) a break from the sports/play fighting/other fun activities that exhaust me so. I have the added pleasure of feeling that I'm being a good parent because the shows are pro-social and non-violent. All in all, a big win/win situation ("remember to attach the flow of oxygen to yourself before assisting others"). What sort of a stay-at-home father would I be if I was always so tired that I was grouchy? A less fun one, a less effective one. TV helps me be the best dad I can be.
To be totally truthful, sometimes the allure of On-Demand cable becomes too strong. Caving to empassioned pleas of my children, I will put on a cartoon like the Batman, Batman beyond, the X-men or Spiderman. This invariably leads to my youngest asking disturbing questions that indicate the slow and potent process of his being de-sensitized to violence. I'm not perfect, OK? But I do stick to Animal Planet most of the time.
I also left out a significant portion of my TV watching. Sports games. What can be more bonding than a father and his sons sharing in the joys of watching the success of Boston Sports. The one caution I would add here regards one's level of sports fanaticism. I, for example, am incapable of watching any of the sports that I truly enjoy without getting so caught up in the action that I behave immaturely (to put it mildly). I guess one positive is that I have mirrored such inappropriately, immature behavior while watching the Patriots/Red Sox/Celtics that my eight-year old is a pillar of maturity in comparison. He has, on occasion, sent me from the room to "catch my cool" before I can return.
In terms of show that I consider wife-friendly (and I need to add that my wife, a strong and independent woman if ever there was one, is a complete weenie when it comes to TV. With her, I can only watch sitcoms with a hopeful slant (i.e. no Married with Children or similarly grim shows). With her, I watch(ed) the Gilmore Girls (which I admitted earlier is one of my favorite all time shows), Scrubs, Friends, 30 Rock, Parenthood, the Office, Better off Ted, etc. You get the picture. The grittier shows, which I do enjoy (Damages,24, Justified, Nip/Tuck) I watch on my own. I need to send a very hearty shout-out to my wife in one regard. I convinced her to watch Lost via Netflix. She LOVED it, and we continue to watch it. (I tried getting her hooked on 24 in a similar manner, but she found the show too stressful).
TV is fun. It is relaxing. It can be used with children if done so judiciously. (Try to avoid Man versus Shark on Animal Planet; it might freak your kids out). A similar careful consideration of TV options is useful with one's wife. But if you're a dedicated TV watcher, you'll make time for the grittier shows so essential to the TV experience.
As a final comment. If you don't have a TIVO, you should really get one. Using the wonders of TIVO, one can fulfill the duties of good parenting/good being-a-good-husband (i.e. proper bedtime rituals/going to bed early when your wife is "TVied out") and never miss a show.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
I wrote yesterday about the joys of exercise as it pertains to a stay-at-home father's life. I forgot to add a warning. Beware of becoming too enamored of your work-out routine (as can be inferred from yesterday's posting, 'enamored' is too weak a word to describe my devotion to my current exercise DVD). Every zealot has to face the specter of ridicule and I am no different. My wife, who's motto is everything in moderation, thinks I am crazy. She will often ask me if I am going to work out in the same tone that one might ask, "are you going to go sniff glue?" To make matters worse, she has inhumanly strong abdominal muscles (after two children) and soundly defeated me in a 'who's got the stronger abdominal muscles' contest. Unfair.
On the plus side, my boys, who will watch me exercise (when I do so at a respectable hour) and offer critiques of my form, just said, "dad, you're getting really good at this!"
Must one first taste acrid ridicule before sweet success?
On the plus side, my boys, who will watch me exercise (when I do so at a respectable hour) and offer critiques of my form, just said, "dad, you're getting really good at this!"
Must one first taste acrid ridicule before sweet success?
Monday, April 12, 2010
Exercise
Exercise has always been a large part of my life. It has an important place in the healthy existence of any stay-at-home father. There are two quotes that exemplify this (this actually occurred to me as I was exercising this morning).
1. "Attach your own breathing device before helping those next to you." -Genereic stewardess
2. "Looking good, Lewis." "Looking good, feeling good, Reggie."- Eddie Murphy, Dan Akroyd from Trading Places
The point of the first quote is you can't help anyone if you, yourself, are in need of help (to be case-specific: you can't help anyone if you're passed out due to an unsafe drop in cabin pressure). The point of the second quote: looking good/healthy makes one feel better (always helpful in the pressure cooker that is stay-at-home parenting).
My point is, exercise has a very real and essential place in the daily existence of a stay-at-home father. My children are 8 and 5. They need to be at school at 8AM. We walk to school, so need to leave early enough to reach there on time. An early start facilitated by a peppy (read: not extremely grouchy) and awake father is key. Thus, I wake at 6AM daily and fearlessly get ready to pump iron. By "pump iron," I actually mean do my 30 day shred by Jillian Michaels. If you don't know this DVD, it's an excellent work-out made up of three six minute session consisting of three minutes of strength exercises, two minutes of cardio exercises, and a minute of abdominal exercises. Add a two minute warm-up to these exercises and, presto, a twenty minute work-out (that is really a good work-out). I've done the thirty day shred for about two and a half months straight. I am happy to report that I've lost 14 pounds and am feeling super-healthy ("looking good, feeling good, Lewis."). After my exercise, I shower, wake my boys, get them ready, and take them to school. I should add a warning to my endorsement of Jillian Micaels. I do not think that her target audience is, well, male. One has to live through such motivational phrases as "come on, ladies," or "if you're thinking about quitting, just think about going jeans shopping; or worse, bathing-suit shopping. That always gets me to work-out." It is a great work-out in only twenty minutes, but enhancing one's feelings of masculinity is not high on Jillian's priorities.
I also play tennis weekly or bi-weekly; it's nice to have some exercise that I can do in public without anyone questioning my gender-identity. Tennis is not everyone's cup of tea, I know. Basketball would work here as would hockey, softball, baseball or soccer.
The greatest role that exercise plays in my day-to-day life is playing sports with my boys. This is great fun for me because I love to play baseball catch, football catch, whiffle ball, soccer and basketball. Another plus: I will be able to beat my boys for another three years (versus my eight year old) and six years (versus my five year old). One has to take positive ego-hits where one can in an unpredictable world. The caution I would add hear: careful watch you wish for. I started encouraging my eldest to play sports with me when he was two and I have created a rabid sports enthusiast who's desire to play sports almost always exhausts my beaten body. My younger son's fanatical need to play sports with me is not yet as strong as my eldest's, but it's coming down the pike. Just the thought makes me feel like taking a nap.
But I love exercise. It makes me feel better, is good for my kids, and beats doing art projects (remember, this is only my opinion). It is a key ingredient to a successful stay-at-home father's repertoire.
1. "Attach your own breathing device before helping those next to you." -Genereic stewardess
2. "Looking good, Lewis." "Looking good, feeling good, Reggie."- Eddie Murphy, Dan Akroyd from Trading Places
The point of the first quote is you can't help anyone if you, yourself, are in need of help (to be case-specific: you can't help anyone if you're passed out due to an unsafe drop in cabin pressure). The point of the second quote: looking good/healthy makes one feel better (always helpful in the pressure cooker that is stay-at-home parenting).
My point is, exercise has a very real and essential place in the daily existence of a stay-at-home father. My children are 8 and 5. They need to be at school at 8AM. We walk to school, so need to leave early enough to reach there on time. An early start facilitated by a peppy (read: not extremely grouchy) and awake father is key. Thus, I wake at 6AM daily and fearlessly get ready to pump iron. By "pump iron," I actually mean do my 30 day shred by Jillian Michaels. If you don't know this DVD, it's an excellent work-out made up of three six minute session consisting of three minutes of strength exercises, two minutes of cardio exercises, and a minute of abdominal exercises. Add a two minute warm-up to these exercises and, presto, a twenty minute work-out (that is really a good work-out). I've done the thirty day shred for about two and a half months straight. I am happy to report that I've lost 14 pounds and am feeling super-healthy ("looking good, feeling good, Lewis."). After my exercise, I shower, wake my boys, get them ready, and take them to school. I should add a warning to my endorsement of Jillian Micaels. I do not think that her target audience is, well, male. One has to live through such motivational phrases as "come on, ladies," or "if you're thinking about quitting, just think about going jeans shopping; or worse, bathing-suit shopping. That always gets me to work-out." It is a great work-out in only twenty minutes, but enhancing one's feelings of masculinity is not high on Jillian's priorities.
I also play tennis weekly or bi-weekly; it's nice to have some exercise that I can do in public without anyone questioning my gender-identity. Tennis is not everyone's cup of tea, I know. Basketball would work here as would hockey, softball, baseball or soccer.
The greatest role that exercise plays in my day-to-day life is playing sports with my boys. This is great fun for me because I love to play baseball catch, football catch, whiffle ball, soccer and basketball. Another plus: I will be able to beat my boys for another three years (versus my eight year old) and six years (versus my five year old). One has to take positive ego-hits where one can in an unpredictable world. The caution I would add hear: careful watch you wish for. I started encouraging my eldest to play sports with me when he was two and I have created a rabid sports enthusiast who's desire to play sports almost always exhausts my beaten body. My younger son's fanatical need to play sports with me is not yet as strong as my eldest's, but it's coming down the pike. Just the thought makes me feel like taking a nap.
But I love exercise. It makes me feel better, is good for my kids, and beats doing art projects (remember, this is only my opinion). It is a key ingredient to a successful stay-at-home father's repertoire.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
On picking a subject about which to blog
People have always encouraged me to write a blog. Perhaps this is due to my natural enthusiasm. From the Patriots to the Red Sox; from the Celtics to the sport of tennis; from Battlestar Gallactica to the Wire; from my love of Hugh Grant movies to my hatred of the Yankees. I have a lot to say and I usually feel that its worth hearing.
The idea of blogging was first introduced to me seven years ago when I told my friend D how much I liked a show about a sassy mother and her unnaturally mature daughter (a show undoubtedly aimed at teenage girls, not adult men). "You should blog about that," he chortled, "people on the web are interested in ALL sorts of stuff." His implication was that I needed to cast a very wide net to find anyone else who might share any of my interests. Although he suggested blogging, he did so derisively thus shutting the door on what might have been a very interesting documentation of a thirty-something's interest in the Gilmore Girls. Blogging would have to wait. On various other occasions, the idea of blogging has resurfaced: either to express my passionate pro-Boston sports views or my strong, often unsubstantiated, views regarding politics, the news or some movie I've seen. Still, I was never convinced that mine were blog-worthy topics. Today, however, that has changed. I've discovered something; an expertise all mine that I am ready to share with the world: how to understand and navigate the world of the stay-at-home father.
I have had the good fortune of being a stay-at-home father since 2006. I have a thorough understanding of the whole operation. And I am not just talking about the child-care part. I have discovered the proper exercise regimen,the correct TV shows to expose one's child to; I have discovered the proper way to indoctrinate one's child as to what Sports teams to love (and which to hate); I have the answers for the safest ways to ensure that one's child will be hip (and that doesn't mean h aving fashionable clothes, but actually being cool) and will like acceptable music; I have insights regarding coaching one's child's basketball teams (other than deep-breathing although relaxation techniques surely help). There are probably other points of interest that I have currently forgotten that might be of help to the soul embarking on the journey of stay-at-home fathering. Indeed. I have found my forum. I can now blog from a position of power (or at least knowledge based on actual experience). Thus begins my blog: Stories of a stay-at-home father. i think that many of the realizations I've arrived at regarding successful stay-at-home fathering apply to life in general. Thus, my blog may have greater impact than on those lucky few who are stay-at-home fathers.
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