our monkeys, my circus: a dad's tale: Recent Episodes
ryan wilson
new balance, ninja style. april 2018
The 11-year-old will wear anything. In that sense, he's like a lot of 11-year-olds. It also serves as a reminder that for as much as our kids are like us, they're also incredibly different.
For example, I LOVED sports growing up. When I was seven, I remember using chalk to sketch out hashmarks in our cul-de-sac for a makeshift asphalt football field. When I was eight I spent what felt like the entire summer playing pick-up baseball with the other kids in the neighborhood.
(Two things: 1) Parents go to jail nowadays for letting their kids wander around unsupervised for eight hours at a time; 2) Is pick-up baseball even a thing anymore? It sounds like something straight out of 'The Natural' though it felt like a perfectly normal way for a kid to spend a summer day as recently as the '80s.)
By the time I was nine, I was on my first Little League roster, and I played baseball, basketball and soccer for the next decade.
The 11-year-old doesn't like sports. In fact, it's fair to say that he loathed his rec soccer experience to the point that we both decided that, in the interest of everyone's health, it was best if he retired at age eight. But here's the thing: he's a fantastic rock climber, something that wasn't even a thing when I was growing up in North Carolina in the '80s. Mostly because I grew up in North Carolina in the '80s. But he's been doing it for a couple years and he's awesome.
It's an amazing feeling to watch your kids succeed, especially when it's something you can't do. But again, it's those differences -- despite all the similarities -- that make them weird and funny and interesting.
Another example: The six-year-old LOVES looking nice. He's even been known to don a tie for special occasions.
Yes, he's wearing two dress shirts; the dark striped one is serving as his sport coat because he doesn't own one ... yet.
The six-year-old is also an early riser -- well before me -- and when I make my way downstairs on school days, he's always fully dressed and sometimes he's already made his breakfast. Meanwhile, I still have to wake up the 11-year-old, and I still have to lay out his clothes. Unlike his brother, he's not a morning person. In fact, I'm convinced I could lay out a burlap sack and he'd slip it on, still half-asleep, wander downstairs for a quick bite to eat, and forget for the millionth straight day to brush his hair or his teeth before we headed to the bus stop where the neighbors would have further confirmation that I was raising a cave man.
I'm like the six-year-old in that I like looking presentable. The idea of wearing sweatpants somewhere other than the gym (and the bus stop; at this point, that's basically an extension of my living room) seems insane to me. But not the 11-year-old. In fact, the other day, we got into a shouting match about just that. I was going to take the kids to the coffee shop, and I asked the 11-year-old to swap out his Adidas sweats, lovingly covered in the dog hair of our nine-year-old yellow Lab, for jeans.
Instead of the 20 seconds it takes to change your pants, we wasted 30 minutes yelling about why wearing sweatpants bedazzled in dog hair in public reflected poorly on him, me and the dog. We went back and forth, me making empty threats, him having none of it, until he eventually relented. He did put on those jeans. And he also got the last laugh because the bottom of said jeans were inadvertently tucked into his socks.
This drives me nuts.
He does it 2-3 times a week, never on purpose, and he's perpetually put out when I bring it up.
"Why does it matter?" he'll ask incredulously
"Why does it matter?" I'll respond, doubling down on the incredulity. "BECAUSE TUCKING YOUR JEANS INTO YOUR SOCKS ISN'T A THING UNLESS YOU'RE RIDING YOUR BIKE TO WORK AND EVEN THEN IT'S QUESTIONABLE."
You'll be surprised to learn that, like the sweatpants and jeans tucked into his socks, the 11-year-old doesn't much care for what he wears on his feet. He'll gladly slip on his worn-down sneakers, the brownish-gray pair that didn't start out that way but now serve as a metaphor of his dirt-and-mud-filled existence. Put another way: He's due some new kicks, though that would never occur to him.
So I took it upon myself to order him some old-school New Balance, the ones that were originally popular when I was growing up and, thanks to the hipsters, have made a comeback. The 11-year-old knew none of this and, other than a pair of Chuck Taylors when he was five, he's only worn Keens.
I didn't ask him before I placed the order because his default response to something new is to reject it outright. Instead, I casually mentioned the shoes had arrived and left the box on the kitchen table while he finished dinner. A few minutes later, he laced them up, took them around the house for a quick test drive, and announced that he really like them.
I was shocked.
For someone who cares so little about clothes, this felt like a breakthrough.
He wore them for the rest of the night, thanked me at least three times for getting them, and when he woke up the next morning the first thing he did was was put on his New Balance.
He even wore them to the coffee shop -- along with his sweatpants. And I was cool with that. Hey, you can't have everything.
not impressed with bribes, march 2017
The 10-year-old retired from soccer a year ago. I want to think I learned some lessons from the experience, mostly about how to motivate a kid who wholly loathed everything about it -- from dragging him to practices to begging him to pay attention during games.
Honestly, I was relieved when he found rock climbing; partly because it was something he loved, but also because it meant I didn't have to endure the weekly stress that came with sitting through those practices and games.
Win-win.
And not only that, I could apply what I learned through that four-plus-year ordeal to his younger brother, who began his foray into the wonderful world of rec-league soccer last fall. The five-year-old has been slightly more engaged in the process, and genuinely seemed to like practice. He still struggled to focus during games, but save a couple kids, this is a recurring theme for every parent. Five-year-olds are notorious for their terrible attention spans. It's one of the reasons they can't run for president.
After the fall season, the five-year-old would occasionally ask me to practice with him, and I was always happy to oblige. So when soccer started up again a few weeks ago, he seemed excited to get back out there with his coach and teammates. The first few spring practices went well, and I felt like he was less prone to the distractions passing clouds or random clumps of dandelions sometimes offer. But just to make sure, I did want any great parent would do: I offered a bribe.
So here's how it went down: The first game of the season was last Saturday morning. About an hour before, while I was getting him into his uniform, we had this conversation:
Me: Hey, so here's the deal. If you score a goal, I'll get you some LEGOs.
Him: (Eyes widen)
Me: What do you think of that?
Him: Are you SERIOUS?!
Me: Yeah. In fact, as soon as we get home from the game, we'll go right out and get them.
Him, still skeptical: So do you mean a little LEGO guy or like a LEGO set?
Me: It'll be a set! All you have to do is pay attention to your coach and score a goal! Oh, and one more thing. Let's keep this between us.
Just so we're clear, I don't care if he ever scores a goal. But when I first tried the "I'll bribe you to play soccer" master plan when the 10-year-old was just starting out, I made the mistake of promising him a dollar for "paying attention." The lack of specificity meant that he was under no obligation to try to kick a passing ball, or chase after the ball should it not be in his immediate vicinity. It also meant that he'd turn to me during the game -- which, by definition, meant he wasn't paying attention -- to ask if he had done enough for that dollar.
Lesson learned. This time I offered up details to protect myself against loopholes unwitting kids have a knack for stumbling into. Plus, I felt like the five-year-old was quite capable of scoring and I was just helping to nudge him in that direction.
I didn't really see a downside -- he'd pay attention, probably end up scoring a goal and feel great about it while we cheered him on. Added bonus: He'd get some LEGOs.
Smash-cut to midway through the third quarter when literally every one of his teammates had scored at least one goal and he was still sitting on zero. There he was, standing in the middle of the field, bawling like ... well, a kid whose brilliant old man promised him LEGOs if he scored a goal and he hadn't really come close to doing it.
There's more: I didn't tell the wife about my plan, so when she walked around the other side of the field to console him once he made his way to the bench, she had an "Oh, wow, he really is upset about not playing well!" surprised look on her face. I knew differently, though I certainly wasn't going to bring that up.
Not to worry though; once the game was over -- and nope, he didn't score, despite the coach's best efforts to get him a goal -- the five-year-old said loudly, and as tears streamed down his face, "I REALLY WANTED THOSE LEGOS" when asked why he was so upset.
It was then that the wife game me the side eye, to which I responded with the ol' "Yeah, I may have overplayed my hand" shoulder shrug.
Good news: We have five more games to get a goal.
Bad news: I don't know what to bribe him with next.
wig inspiration: 'trolls,' april 2017
Remember when trolls were, at worst, innocuous oddities? Now, instead of evoking images of furry-haired plastic dolls, they're considered a contemptible lot. Perhaps most shocking, it has nothing to do with the whole geriatric man-baby weirdness (seriously, look at that thing). Internet trolls, who take great pleasure in stoking discord through inflammatory rhetoric on message boards, comments sections and social media, have ruined the good name of those original trolls.
I aim to do my part to change that.
Like most parents desperately trying to keep pace with two kids with grand designs on taking down the family institution (just like online trolls!), I frequently use kids' movies to distract them while I plot my next course of action.
This plan rarely works. Mostly because -- as best I can tell, anyway -- the five year old has extensive counterespionage training. He knows that I know that he's up to something, and putting on a movie only raises his suspicions. So instead of, you know, watching the movie long enough to let me get something -- anything -- done, I can only imagine he has this conversation with himself as it pertains to me:
"As long as I'm awake I will engage you with an inane running commentary that will, through sheer tenacity, wear down your defenses and bend your will, and eventually render you helpless to do anything about my grand vision for eating sugar and staying up late."
And then he proceeds to ask some of the most ridiculous things you can't even imagine.
"What are chairs?" is one I got recently.
I've discovered that most five-year-olds do this in some form, and I suspect there is a secret network they use to share ideas. I hope to one day infiltrate their ranks and troll them out of existence. IT WORKS BOTH WAYS, KIDS.
Okay, back on Earth...
A few weeks ago, the kids and I had the evening to ourselves. We decided to rent "Trolls," an animated movie about the old-school furry-headed creatures, not the internet a-holes. At this point in the proceedings, with a 10-year-old and a five-year-old, there are very few kids movies from the last two decades that we haven't seen. Some are terrible, some are adequate but very few are able to capture the attention of a younger audience while also appealing to the old-timers tasked with sitting through it with them.
"Trolls" is one such film.
In fact, I'm willing to go so far as to say that it's my favorite kids film ever. This proclamation, I can assure you, has nothing to do with my unhealthy obsession with Justin Timberlake, but mostly because "Trolls" is a great story, with great characters and a fantastic soundtrack that works seamlessly with the storyline.
I say this bit about the soundtrack as someone whose musical interests remain rooted in the 1990s, when I was in college and had people to tell me what I should be listening to. This probably goes some way in explaining why my kids aren't that into popular music. And this isn't to say that we don't play music at home -- I do it every day -- it's just that, like sports on television, the kids have an uncanny ability to tune it out.
But a funny thing happened after we watched "Trolls" three times in 24 hours.
A few days later, we were driving somewhere. The kids were in the back and unusually loud and annoying. I had long ago given up playing music in the car to drown them out; they a) usually ask me to turn it off because "they don't like it" or b) start in with the inane questions that require me to turn down the music, ask "What did you say?" only to have them repeat said inane question, which invariably leads to me cranking up the music even louder to take my mind off driving off the nearest bridge. It's a vicious cycle.
But this time, I didn't say anything. Instead, I found the "Trolls" soundtrack on Spotify, fired it up ... and magic followed.
Immediately, everything went silent, save the soothing vocals of Justin Timberlake and Gwen Stefani. It was like sleeping gas poured out of the vents and the adults had gas masks. It was a legitimate "Eureka" moment.
So now, anytime we're in the car for any length of time, "Trolls" gets played. In fact, the kids request it. Just the other day, I said these exact words to the 10-year-old before a short car ride: "You want to watch 20 minutes of Rogue One on the iPhone or listen to 'Trolls'."
"'Trolls' please," was the response, which came without hesitation.
That was my cue to expand operations.
It is almost impossible to get the 10 year old to clean, well, anything -- the play room, his room, himself. Between all the arm-waving and sighing with such requests, you might think he was having a seizure. And when he eventually relents, it's a begrudging and half-assed cleaning effort, one that involves one-word answers, no eye contact, and a lot of stomping around.
On Saturday, we needed to do some cleaning, mostly in the kids' play room and bedrooms. But before I brought it up, I blasted "Trolls" on the house boom box (we don't really have a house boom box, though now I wish we did). After about a minute, I mentioned we needed to do some picking up.
I'm not making this up when I say this: Not only were they eminently amenable, they did it while dancing. It was right out of a Roald Dahl book.
Smash-cut to 15 minutes later and the house was clean. More amazing than that? Nobody cried!
Most amazing of all: This isn't even an April fools' joke.
So thank you, "Trolls," for your important contribution to making me a better parent.
How many Cloud Guy handshakes can you count?! pic.twitter.com/s1U7qJIcZ9
— DreamWorks Trolls (@Trolls) March 14, 2017
monkey puddles, january 2017
The nine-year-old loves science. He loves space-related topics in particular, and while he still watches way more "Phineas and Ferb" than any human should, he'll drop everything for a documentary about the planets, moons, distant galaxies and black holes.
Science fact has led to science fiction. (Or maybe, more accurately, science fiction -- namely, Star Wars -- led to science fact, which has now come full circle.) He watched "The Martian" the other night, but not before his mom gave him the "Okay, there are some bad words in this movie -- mostly because a guy is stranded 100 million miles from home and he's understandably frustrated" speech. He seemed unfazed by the language, which could mean one of several things: He's pretty mature for his age (debatable); he hears it all the time at school (plausible); or he's caught me cursing when I didn't think anyone was listening (almost certainly).
Whatever, he loved that movie. And it's my sincere hope that he continues to love science (since the already-long-shot odds of him making it as a professional athlete were officially dashed when he announced his retirement from soccer last fall). I was well into my twenties before I learned that lesson. After goofing off for much of high school and college, graduate school was a rude awakening; it became a perpetual game of catch-up -- I was with students who had spent their entire academic lives doing science and math. It wasn't too late for me to cram a lifetime of book-learning into 3-4 years, but it wasn't ideal either (duh).
The point: The importance of science and math is a point I make often. But kids, it turns out, are sometimes more receptive to advice when it's not coming from the same person who hounds them about brushing their teeth, or cleaning their room, or making sure THEIR JEANS ARE RIGHT-SIDE-OUT before tossing them in the general direction (but never into, mind you) the dirty-clothes hamper.
(Added bonus: Me taking those same jeans out of the dryer only to realize that the pockets were stuffed with tissues, candy wrappers, erasers -- you name it -- and now the content of those pockets are distributed equally between the lint trap and the other clothes in the load. This happens frequently. And by frequently, I mean every time. Good times.)
So it doesn't hurt that a rocket scientist frequents our local coffee shop. This isn't a euphemism -- this guy helped build Skylab. He's now retired, but still as sharp as ever, and he's always excited to talk to the kids about, well, anything -- but he brightens whenever the conversation turns to space.
Naturally, he was excited to hear that the nine-year-old was riveted by the "The Martian," and even more excited when I told him that the nine-year-old blew through 13 episodes of "Cosmos: A Spacetime Odyssey," the Neil deGrasse Tyson reboot of Carl Sagan's "Cosmos," which originally aired in 1980.
There's so much to love about this series, but the most poignant, at least for me, were the final minutes of the final episode. You hear Sagan talking about Earth. He calls it the "Pale Blue Dot," a name inspired by an image taken by Voyager 1, looking back at our planet, as it left the solar system.
"It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience." Sagan says. "There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known."
I didn't say anything to the nine-year-old when we watched it together, but those words stuck with me. And days later, I decided to show him the clip again, to get his thoughts.
"It's funny," he said afterwards, which was about the last response I was expecting.
"How do you mean?" I asked.
"That part where he talked about the 'rivers of blood spilled' by kings to become rulers of a 'fraction of a dot' -- that part was funny."
The implication (I think, anyway): Relative to the vastness of our universe, it's sorta silly that people do all these horrible things to each other for fleeting "glory and triumph."
The lesson: Sometimes, the philosophical ramblings of a nine-year-old are worth paying attention to.
a portrait in goofy, october 2016
Here's something I've learned: The nine-year-old is immeasurably goofier than the five-year-old. It's not even close. The five-year-old and I spend our weekdays together, save the two-and-a-half hours in the afternoon when he's at preschool. And, for the most part, he's incredibly easy to be around.
Of course, this was also the case back in the day, before the nine-year-old started school. But with age comes goofiness. I suppose this is to be expected, at least for boys. My wife said just the other day that she wished my mom was still alive to ask her what I was like at that age. I'd love to know too. I have vague memories of being a huge pain in the ass but I don't have the perspective of being on the business end of all the nonsense.
That has changed over the last year or so. My day now consists of me and my wife pleading with the nine-year-old to dial down the silliness. Without fail, he's eager and agreeable. Also without fail: the cease-fire rarely lasts more than a few minutes, and usually only a few seconds.
Full-on Groundhog Day ensues.
I yell and scream -- to the point that if somebody is walking by our house they're probably convinced a murder is in progress -- the nine-year-old finally realizes I'm serious, and he eventually apologizes for it. Then I'll stupidly ask him why he does it, to which he invariably has no earthly idea.
He does it because he's nine. That's the answer. That will always be the answer. And I suspect it will be the answer when he's 10, 11, 12 and well into his 20s. You'd think he'd get tired of hearing my "You're getting older, and that means you have to be a responsible role model for your brother" speech. But given the frequency with which that speech is delivered, I can only conclude that it's is favorite time of day.
Or, perhaps, there's a simpler explanation.
IT'S BECAUSE HE'S NINE. And when you're nine, you're literally thinking about THIS VERY MOMENT and nothing else. Not what might happen in 30 seconds, a minute or an hour, but how you feel RIGHT NOW. And right now, the most annoying sound in the world is HILARIOUS. (That's me in the middle):
The goofiness manifests itself in many forms, and usually tangentially implicates his brother. There are the loud, annoying noises; the inane arguments; and the slapstick routines in small spaces. These small spaces include the play room, which is conveniently located next to my office or, just as frequently, the backseat of the car.
And that's the best. When you're literally driving the circus through town. I'm not proud to admit that on more than one occasion I've done the old-school move where the dad reaches behind him with one arm while driving with the other desperately hoping to grab somebody's -- anybody's -- leg while screaming -- pleading -- some form of PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SHUT UP. SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! as he loses his voice.
It's a humbling moment, when the kids realize their dad's about to have an aneurysm. And because you didn't have an aneurysm, you all have to sit there in awkward silence until you try to explain away the crazy.
For now, this is my life, pretty much every day of the week. There is a silver lining, however: In four years, we'll get to relive it all over again with his younger brother.
chimney rock, nc, september 2016
The nine-year-old is in fourth grade. There is nothing remarkable about this. Most fourth-graders are nine at some point during the school year. What is extraordinary, however, is that he's never shown up to school without his pants. Or his shirt. Or shoes.
I say this partly because I'm responsible for getting him up and out the door in the morning -- and let's be honest, I'm ill-suited for that job -- but mostly because for as smart as he is, he'd get halfway down the driveway in the middle of winter before he realized he was barefoot. His head is firmly in the clouds, a phenomenon that is impervious to time, temperament or the constant reminders that now seem to dominate our conversations.
And it's at these moments that I'm taken back some 30 years (related: Jesus, I'm old), to when I'd be doing something my parents probably considered incredibly stupid and my only defense was that I forgot. My mom would be so beside herself that she would implore me to "formember." I thought this was funny but it had no lasting effect on my behavior.
That was because I was in middle school, a fact I have to often remind myself, often while in mid-lecture to the nine-year-old about why he needs to do this or that. It's a tired, predictable routine at this point, like the final few seasons of the American Office. I'll bark some sentiment he's heard countless times before, and he'll stare blankly, usually just over my shoulder (but not always!) pretending like he's paying attention when he clearly is not.
The million-mile stare is a dead giveaway though his reflexive, post-speech "uh huh" is also a sure sign he has no idea what I just said. Invariably, that leads to this exchange:
Me: So, you got it, right?
Him: Yes!
Me: Okay, what did I just say.
(awkward silence)
Him: (stammers) I didn't hear all of it.
Me: (bangs head against nearest wall)
Of course, this is as much about me as it is him.
First, he's a great kid. He's smart and curious, and he's also goofy as hell -- because he's nine.
(I can see you rolling your eyes. "Everybody thinks their kid is great!" you're thinking. Fair enough. I roll my eyes when I hear people say that too, but here's the thing: Because I work from home, I'm exposed to way more kids than I would be if I went to some office building everyday. As such, I've seen my fair share of terrible kids and I don't even recognize those monsters. Also: He's the same kid who once told his mom about hearing the s-word at school. When pressed, he explained that someone said "stupid" within earshot.)
Second, I can be overbearing and my expectations can be unreasonable. I know this. But my biggest fear is that we'll raise a jerk (see the paragraph above) so my parenting instincts are to overcompensate. To his credit, he's extremely patient about all this, a quality that I certainly lack. That said, his biggest worry is whether he'll spend his afternoons building with LEGOs or Bioncles.
My days are slightly more stressful.
Most of that stress is a function of being an adult, but a non-trivial piece of that is because the nine-year-old is oblivious about, well, most things. A brief history:
- He lost three jackets in a week. This isn't hyperbole. THREE. JACKETS. He left one at tennis practice and then forgot to ask his coach about it for two weeks. Two other jackets disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Instead of freaking out, which is my go-to response, I gave the straight-faced, "Well, you're just gonna freeze at the bus stop" speech. He seemed fine with that, which I of course found infuriating. Footnote: The jackets -- both of them -- were LITERALLY next to his backpack in the family room. You can't make this stuff up.
- Here's a fun conversation I have at least 15 times a week: "Hey, when you take off your jeans, if they're clean, can you put them in your drawer?" Good news: The nine-year-old obliges. Bad news: Because I didn't offer detailed directions -- and didn't repeat said directions multiple times -- here's what I'll find when I open the drawer: Jeans, with just ONE leg inside-out, balled up in the corner of the drawer. Added bonus: He looks like a hobo when he puts them on. (By the way, the one-leg-inside-out affair is far more egregious in my mind because you can visualize him taking them off. It's a hands-free. feet-only proposition, and that means he's dragging the jeans all over the floor in the process of removing them. Moving on...)
- There's a hamper upstairs. All I ask is that the nine-year-old let me know when it's full. He doesn't have to drag it downstairs, or throw the clothes in the washing machine. He just has to say these six words: "Dad, the hamper is now full." Also acceptable: "Hamper's full," and at this point, I'd settle for "Hamper." In the two years or so that I've asked him to do this, never once have I been informed of the hamper situation prior to so many clothes being jammed in there that not only is closing the lid a pipe dream, some of those clothes are now on the floor. Of course they are.
- In other clothes-related news, the nine-year-old is a bean pole. This isn't unique, but it does mean that he sometimes needs a belt. Last count he had three of them. We also had a conversation recently that he couldn't find any of them. A few days later, I found all three -- in the hamper. He had taken off his pants -- they were inside-out, of course -- and didn't think to take off his belt before chucking the whole setup in the general vicinity of the hamper. He did that on three separate occasions! -- with no memory of it!! -- before realizing he needed a belt. So now I remind him to remove his belt before putting his pants in the hamper. I'll let you guess how that's going.
- When do kids start brushing their teeth? I ask because I've suppress those early years, most likely as a coping mechanism. I also bring it up because whatever the correct answer is, subtract that from nine and that's how long the nine-year-old has been tasked with brushing his teeth. It's also the same amount of time I've had to remind him, every morning and without fail, to brush his teeth. I do not know how this is possible.
In the scheme of things, this is hardly a big deal. But then again, everything is relative.
And there's a silver lining! Apparently, it's only going to get worse. I know this from experience -- I was in my own world as a teenager -- but I was also reminded of my future during a conversation I had a few years ago. I was at the neighborhood dog park and talking to one of the regulars, who had three adult sons, all successful. He was probably tired of my bellyaching about my fate and succinctly put it all into perspective: "Listen, here's the deal: The bigger the kid, the bigger the problem."
Holy crap.
It has since dawned on me that this is why we -- me, you, everybody you know -- eventually morphs into what we said we'd never become: Our parents. It's child-rearing motivated by equal parts desperation, exasperation and fear. Put another way, it's all I can do to stay one step ahead of the inmates trying to overtake the asylum. In related news: I feel like I have a Shawshank situation on my hands.
It's another Our Monkeys, My Circus Podcast, and on the latest episode, the nine-year-old and I talk about his latest birthday, the joys of having an infected big toe and what it's like to deal with an insane name-calling little brother.
rubik's cubin', march 2016
The eight-year-old is now nine. I have a hard time wrapping my head around this because I vividly remember sitting in the hospital with my very pregnant wife, who was already two weeks past her due date for reasons that have become crystal clear over the years.
(By comparison, the four-year-old was two weeks early. This also makes perfect sense. It's amazing how two people, sharing much of the same genetic information, can be so completely different.)
Anyway, the now-nine-year-old seems a lot more mature than I was at that age. In fact, as a third-grader, I once knowingly peed in my pants right in the middle of class. In my defense, my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Hare, was something of a hard-ass and I was overly sensitive. (Related: this trait has made its way to the four-year-old. It is eminently annoying.)
We were in the middle of some standardized test, and Mrs. Hare made it clear before we began that if you have to go to the bathroom, do it now. For reasons I still can't explain, I didn't go, and not long afterwards, I had to pee.
(Another of life's great mysteries: WHY DO YOUNG KIDS REFUSE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM?! What do they think they're missing? I can tell them one thing it guarantees: Your parents losing their minds about it. But by all means, continue to dance around and deny it right up until the moment it's too late. We love that.)
Instead of raising my hand and facing Mrs. Hare's wrath, I decided to hold it. In terms of thinking strategically, the only worse decision may have been announcing to the class that I would be wetting my pants in roughly 4-6 minutes. At this point, the pressure was such that I couldn't think about the test at all and alternated between moving my legs furiously in an attempt to stave off the inevitable and trying to formulate a plausible excuse for when, you know, the inevitable happened.
Oh, I should mention that our desks included wooden slatted seats, which meant that there would be no chance the pee would be contained to the chair. Nope, it would make its way through the aforementioned slats and right onto the hardwood floor, plenty loud for kids actually trying to concentrate on the test to notice.
So it was no surprise when one girl -- I still remember her name but I won't implicate her here -- notified Mrs. Hare that some dumbass wet himself and his surrounding area. I have some recollection of Mrs. Hare asking me what happened. Thinking quickly on my feet, I offered up this wholly believable excuse: I fell in a mud puddle at the bus stop that morning.
I'm fuzzy on what followed -- though I can imagine it involved plenty of laughing -- but the poor woman must've taken pity on me because I don't recall her making a big deal about it.
Silver lining: 30 years later, I have an awesome story. It also sets a low bar for those that follow me; as long as the nine-year-old doesn't pee in his pants over the final three months of the year, he's done better than his old man. That's called sacrifice, people.
age: 1 minute
12 months
two years old
four years old
five years old
seven years old
Back on Earth...
So what did the nine-year-old want for his birthday? In continuing with the retro theme, he asked fora Rubik's Cube, Hungry Hungry Hippos and the original Monopoly.
I'm not even kidding.
By the way, the children's version of Monopoly is a joke. Mostly because it discriminates against old people. Kids get to roll first -- because, hey, this is supposed to be fun! -- which virtually guarantees they'll win every time. So it was with great pleasure that the nine-year-old and I spent three hours with the original version last night ... and I DOMINATED.
Hours later, while he was upstairs reading on the iPad, he sent me this text:
Him: You're going to get crushed in Monopoly!
My response: FAMOUS LAST WORDS.
Of course, I regularly engage in that type of gum-flapping, usually with little-to-no repercussions. Because, you know, he's barely nine. But the day before his birthday, we played chess, like we had hundreds of times before.
Except I lost. For the first time ever.
And secretly, I wasn't happy about it. Devastated might be too strong a word but it's probably closer to the truth than I care to admit. I won the next day but the damage was already done: It was the latest reminder that the balance of power is shifting. Not long after, he had solved one side of the Rubik's Cube. Back in the day, that took me weeks, (and maybe months).
But hey, I still have Monopoly.
If basketball was chess the eight-year-old would be Steph Curry. Feb. 2016
I spent my last two Saturdays in a church gym watching my eight-year-old's basketball team get absolutely destroyed.
The final score in the first game: 51-5.
You don't typically see that kind of ass-whipping in the Lord's house. But as I tell my eight-year-old all the time: Life ain't fair. Sometimes bad things happen, and you can either whine about it and make it worse or control what you can, learn from the experience, and move on.
But secretly it bothered me. Watching a bunch of third and fourth graders getting their asses handed to them in a league that constantly preaches the importance of being more Christ-like was a bit much. So what's the lesson, exactly? Your life is going to be one continuous kick in the nuts?
I didn't say anything to the eight-year-old because, well, life ain't fair. Plus, it was one game. Not only that, but our team has struggled all season. They routinely lose by 20, and their one victory came when I was out of town so for all I know it was one big con to fool me into thinking that there was another team in the league worse than them.
But that's sorta the point lost in all this; you hear all the time that "it's not about winning" when, you know, it's really about winning. That thought never once crossed my mind during the eight-year-old's first season, probably because they didn't keep score and it was more about seeing how long the ref could go without calling double-dribble in a game that consisted only of double-dribbling. But after that 46-point beatdown last week, I couldn't help but wonder if winning was more important than those halftime sermons about integrity and graciousness.
Worth mentioning: This is my thing, not my son's. He's certainly well aware of what it means to lose by 40-something points but he also cares nothing about sports. He'd rather be doing anything -- reading, LEGOs, school work -- than playing organized sports. But we insist he does it for all the usual cliches parents insist their kids do things: It'll make you a better person, losing builds characters and, of course, life ain't fair.
Fast-forward to this Saturday. New team, somehow worse result. I have no idea what the final score was because of a newly invented mercy rule, where the scoreboard operator zeroes out the scoreboard after the deficit reaches 40. Pretty sure we lost by at least 60.
Seriously, this is how lopsided both losses were: The Golden State Warriors could have played the final period of either game and not even come close to tying the score. Think about that for a second. The best basketball team on the planet was no match for the these two church-league juggernauts.
Funny story: Apparently, one of the assistant coaches on the eight-year-old's team was so frustrated by the way last week's loss went down that he said something to the church-league higher-ups. And so did several parents. So ahead of this Saturday's demolition, changes were made.
One of the changes: The aforementioned mercy rule. Except that eight- and nine-year-old's aren't idiots. They don't magically assume that the score is 0-0 midway through the second half when a few seconds before they were trailing by 38. Also not helping: The public address announcer reminding us every few minutes that the score is still being kept and if you're dying to know what it is, just come to the scorer's desk.
Another of the changes: Mixing up the halftime show. Typically, one of the church-league officials talks about ways we can be humble, principled -- Christ-like, if you will. Perhaps the irony of delivering that message in front of a scoreboard that reads 31-3 -- in a league they organized and on teams they assembled -- was even too much for them. Instead, they decided halftime should be a time for reflection on what the players love about this program.
As someone who worked in DC long enough to know I didn't want to work in DC, this was right out of the Cover Your Ass manual of last resort. Loosely translated: "We figured this might blow up in our face but we initially pretended like nothing was wrong and just hoped it would go away. But it didn't, people started complaining -- loudly -- and since we don't have an explanation or a contingency plan, we're just making stuff up as we go. Let's see if this works."
It rarely does.
But then the ref grabbed the microphone, called both teams to midcourt, and asked if any of the players wanted to talk about why they liked the program.
The eight-year-old raised his hand.
He took the mic.
His message: "When one team loses the other team isn't mean about it."
BROUGHT THE HOUSE DOWN.
Folks were clapping furiously, like they were trying to be the next contestant on The Price Is Right. My wife was crying (of course she was) and I'm pretty sure a few others were too. (By the way, I feel safe in saying that this is as close as we'll get to people cheering wildly for the eight-year-old on a basketball court. I'm okay with that.)
I just laughed. That's my eight-year-old. Already a way better person than his old man. Looking for a silver lining where there probably isn't one, always assuming the best of people. His words reminded me that we'll all forget the fact that his team lost by 90-something points over a two-game stretch (and yes, I laughed while typing that sentence and laughed harder when I reread it). But we'll remember that time he spoke up.
I was focused on the perceived injustice of a church league's wink-and-nod at roster stacking. Like this was House of Cards and we're talking about some grand conspiracy. But my eight-year-old was more interested in pointing out that this really isn't about winning. It's about being a good person.
Most amazing, at least for me: His sincerity, diplomacy and the implicit acknowledgement to the sheer ridiculousness of what was going on. (Related: the eight-year-old would make a terrible politician. "I'm going to go up there and tell the truth. That seems like the right thing to do.")
It gets better: The ref gave the eight-year-old a couple of church bucks redeemable at the concession stand. They were literally offering bribes!
It's weird, being a parent. We're always looking for teachable moments and then we yell at our kids when they aren't paying attention. And then something like this happens and it just reinforces that I have no idea what I'm doing. It's also telling that we've reached the tipping point on the "my dad's infallible!" fiction I was trying to pass off as reality. That ship has officially sailed, and now I'm learning things from my son.
After the impromptu halftime pep talk the game continued. The beatdown also continued, even if the scoreboard said otherwise. But credit to the winners, who couldn't have been nicer about it.
When it was over, we waited for the eight-year-old outside the locker room. The first thing he said when he emerged?
"They gave me two dollars for talking!"
He then offered one dollar to his four-year-old brother, who promptly blew it at the concession stand on something he knew he wasn't going to like. So their mother got them pizza, everyone celebrated like they had just won the lottery, and the only person who remembers those back-to-back blowouts is me.
But I've got a good feeling about next Saturday.
The monkey and the dog upon learning they weren't invited to Chili's. Jan. 2016.
Here's how I spent my Friday night: I laid on the couch from 6-7pm, falling in and out of sleep while watching a documentary about rocks. Between the stomping and yelling, the four-year-old made sure I didn't nap for more than 30 seconds at a time.
(I've made a mental note and will be repaying the favor in 10 years or so, when he discovers that sleeping is one of life's great pleasures. I will not forget.)
We then had dinner and I spent the next 90 minutes getting mentally prepared for the eight-year-old's basketball game that some sadist scheduled for 9pm. That preparation usually involves giving myself a "let's try to focus on the positives" pep talk, then reminding my eight-year-old about things like the importance of playing defense only when the other team has the ball.
We also reviewed the three plays his coach installed at practice that week, the proper defensive stance and how to set a pick without actually tackling your opponent.
These sessions are usually met with emotions ranging from indifference to frustration, though the eight-year-old seemed to be in relatively good spirits, probably because no matter what happened he'd be staying up past his bedtime.
He began the game on the bench, which doesn't mean much because these things are six periods long and everybody plays the same number of minutes. But his team quickly trailed 10-0 though, to the eight-year-old's credit, he seemed unconcerned; I look across the gym and he's sitting, legs crossed, like he's six hours into a weekend-long insurance seminar, deep in thought about something -- anything -- a million miles away.
But once he gets in something clicks; he's not wandering around the court wondering what he's supposed to do. On defense, he finds his man and he Ds him up like a G-rated Dennis Rodman. I actually kept count: the players he covered scored just once in 10 shots. Those are hall of fame numbers.
Of course, the game was as lopsided as it gets. When it was over the scoreboard read 42-16, and as I waited outside the locker room, I heard one of the eight-year-old's teammates say, "That might be the most uneven score in the history of basketball."
To be fair, we might have the shortest team in the league, which is a huge disadvantage at any level. And since this ain't Hoosiers, one-sided outcomes are going to happen with some frequency. None of that mattered to me because the eight-year-old played one of the best games in his short career. You wouldn't know it to look at the box score; no points, no assists, no rebounds or blocks. Just solid defense, a few good picks on offense, and a general awareness of where he was supposed to be on the court.
I was proud of him because I know he doesn't care about basketball or soccer. He'd much rather be reading, or LEGO-ing or doing anything other than playing sports. But there are life lessons in organized team activities -- especially when they involve 26-point beatdowns -- so even if "professional athlete" is off the table as a future occupation he will at least have had the character-building experiences that come with humbling defeats.
After the game, I told him how well he played. He smiled, clearly with something else on his mind, and a beat later he changed the subject.
"Thanks. So did I do well enough to get something at the snack bar?"
There's a snack bar at the gym where the games are played, and that place must make a killing every Saturday morning when games are normally scheduled. But at 10pm on Friday night, it was a ghost town because, well, it was 10pm on a Friday night.
With no french-fry payday in his immediate future, the eight-year-old probably felt like he just wasted an hour of his life pretending to care about basketball. But he didn't say anything and we got in the car to drive home.
Except we didn't go home. I went right instead of left and a few minutes later I pulled into the Chili's parking lot.
"What are we doing?" he asked.
"Thought I'd bring you to Chili's since you had such a good game."
"REALLY?!"
"Nah, just kidding," I said. "Just drove five miles out of our way so I could turn the car around."
"I know that's not true," he said. "This is going to be AWESOME."
So at 10:30 on a Friday night, we roll into Chili's. It's about half-full though he seems shocked at how many people are still up at this hour.
"Yeah, people like to blow off steam after a long week of work and a lot time that involves going to Chili's," I explained. "You and the rest of these folks are some of the last people still up at this hour. That's pretty special."
The waitress comes and the eight-year-old orders an orange juice and a small pepperoni pizza with a side of corn on the cob. I get a Bud Light because I figure that's what a Dad of the Year candidate would probably order.
"You didn't have to bring me to Chili's just because the snack bar was closed," was one of the first things he said to me, partially because he's generally a sweet kid but also because these things -- staying up late, doing stuff big kids do -- are a much bigger deal when you're eight.
Either way, I told him he had earned the right to celebrate. And for the next half-hour, that's exactly what he did, telling silly jokes, wondering what kind of fart noises his sleeping brother was making, scarfing down reheated pizza, and sporting an ear-to-ear smile the entire time.
Later that night, after we got home, the wife told me the eight-year-old "was shaking he was so excited" as he recounted to her the events of the Great Chili's Miracle of 2016.
As an adult, it's one of those things you don't think much about at the time -- it's Chili's, not Disney World -- but it's something he'll remember forever. Which is weird, because, as parents, we invest so much time into doing things we think our children will love, things that will enrich their lives and make them better people. Things that we never got the chance to do when we were young. Turns out, all we need to do is take them to Chili's.
It's another Our Monkeys, My Circus Podcast, and on the latest episode, the eight-year-old and I review Star Wars: The Force Awakens. There are spoilers, obviously, so if you haven't seen the movie, please skip this episode until you have. Or, alternatively, if you have no intentions of ever seeing the movie but enjoy hearing two goofballs mindlessly flapping their gums, listen away. Either way, we talk about the similarities between The Force Awakens and A New Hope, our favorite Star Wars droids (BB-8 v. R2-D2), the best Star Wars fighter pilot (Poe vs. Luke vs. Han), the mysteries that are Kylo Ren, Finn and Rey, the biggest shockers, and our theories about what will happen in future movies. Extra spoiler: I'm predicting that Lando Calrissian will open a beauty salon and the mustache-perm combo will again become an intergalactic sensation.
It's another Our Monkeys, My Circus Podcast, and on the latest episode, the eight-year-old and I talk about how all Christmas presents aren't created equally (see, for example), the awesome power of Uno ATTACK!, why randomly firing arrows -- even toy ones -- without some forethought is a terrible idea, the unintentional comedy of angry letters from little people and even a little NFL news. We even tease our next podcast, which will be about one thing: STAR WARS: THE FORCE AWAKENS.
When you get everything you want but not the stuff your brother did. (Dec. 2015)
...This is especially true when a) there's an older brother involved, and b) they have grandparents who insist on spoiling them and letting you deal with the fallout.
Which brings us to Christmas Eve.
It was at our house this year, and it's basically an excuse to eat and drink too much, and in between all the eating and drinking, we let the kids open a few presents. Seems perfectly harmless and no reasonable person would complain about any of this.
Four-year-olds are not reasonable people.
Issues arose early in the evening, when said four-year-old ripped open the wrapping paper on Present No. 1 from Pop to find Batman pajamas. He's a huge Batman fan, but pajamas are clothes and clothes are an automatic no-go. The reaction was predictable: a wave of puzzlement washed over his face, followed by a forced smile and a no-look "Thank you" before he forgot about it altogether.
Then the 8-year-old opened his present. It was a LEGO Ninjago Morro Dragon, which looked to have about four million pieces. This was a resounding success -- unless you were the four-year-old, who promptly melted into tears because in his mind, LEGOs are infinitely better than PJs.
A couple days later, after wrongs had been righted, I asked the four-year-old what he was feeling when he saw the LEGO Ninjago Morro Dragon.
"It made me feel like I wasn't in the house ... almost," he explained with all the seriousness of an expert witness testifying about DNA evidence at a murder trial. "And then mom got me a secret Mixel surprise. Then I felt good. And my cousin didn't want anybody to know that we were building it because it was only a surprise for me."
Mixels are also LEGOs, though on a smaller scale. Either way, there was harmony in the universe and the four-year-old was able to put aside his feelings of inadequacy long enough to remember what Christmas was all about.
That lasted 20 minutes, which included a happy stretch of playing with a barrel of Squigz (they're suction cups you can fashion into pretty much anything), courtesy of his aunt and uncle. Then the eight-year-old opened his present from the aunt and uncle.
Laser Pegs.
If you are not familiar with Laser Pegs, they're basically LEGOs that light up. Based solely on the four-year-old's long face, I'd say those lights ratcheted up the perceived awesomeness by about 40-50 percent over your garden-variety LEGOs, So, naturally, he started crying ... again.
The four-year-old explains to his aunt why a life without LEGOs is like one big kick in the nuts. (photo credit: Uncle Joe)
My brother-in-law sent along the photo above documenting the after-school special as it unfolded in real time:
"I-I-I-I-I .... w-w-w-w-w-aaaaant ... LE-LE-LE-LE-LEGGGGGGOOs," the four-year-old, between cry-heaves, told his uncle. "I really like 'em, I really do."
With no intention of doing anything about it, his uncle then asked where one can get LEGOs.
"You can buy them at Target."
A few days later, and because I'm a great dad, I followed up, asking him why he was so upset.
"Because no one got me one of those and I always wanted one."
This was news to us and anybody who knows him. All we heard about in the days and weeks leading up to Christmas was that he was desperate for a Paw Patroller, LEGO Darth Vader, and a bunch of other stuff I just tuned out (don't worry, his mom was paying attention).
When I told the four-year-old that he never informed Santa that he "always wanted one" he thought for a beat and then said, "I don't know how he was supposed to know."
You don't say. Then I reminded him that he got a ton of LEGO-related toys on Christmas, and there really was no reason to cry about two presents he didn't even know existed a half-hour before he started bawling.
"Yeah, I guess you're right," he said.
Of course, Pop came over the day after Christmas to take me and the eight-year-old to see Star Wars (more on that later but just know it was AWESOME), and he didn't show up empty handed. Before we left for the movies, he handed the four-year-old a LEGO Chima set.
I mean, come on.
So why did Pop bring him another present?
"Because I didn't get any presents before," the four-year-old explained. "That's why he brought it."
But you had a TON of presents on Christmas, remember?
"Okay, I don't know why he brought them."
I then asked him if he'd do things differently knowing what he knows now.
"Next time, I'll say thank you," he said. "And I'll be thankful. And yes, I'm sure I was thankful this time too."
So yeah. Merry Christmas.
It's another Our Monkeys, My Circus Podcast, and on the latest episode, the eight-year-old and I talk about practical jokes (specifically, the one he played on me, taking full advantage of my OCD in the process), what you're really saying when you say "darn" (this only applies to eight-year-olds, not potty-mouthed adults like, say, me), and Halloween treats that don't include candy (I was as confused as you). We also discuss dinosaurs, why jacking up your pants is hilarious, and I review my report card (filled out by the eight-year-old, natch) before we play a new game: Three Questions.
Documented evidence of the one time the four-year-old ran without actually falling. June 2015
Here's a fun fact no one ever mentions before you have kids: They have terrible balance. Or maybe it's just my kids who can't seem to put one foot in front of the other more than twice before crashing into something either sharp or expensive.
Other parents have tried to sympathize but I've seen their kids, and they look eminently more comfortable with the laws of gravity. My kids look like this newborn elephant...
...With one glaring exception: I'm not nearly as helpful as those two lovely elephant parents. In fact, a few weeks ago, the four-year-old was watching "Daniel the Tiger." Daniel got hurt -- probably slipped while trying to help someone, that smug little do-gooder -- which prompted this conversation:
Four-year-old: Daniel's dad is not like my dad.
The wife: Oh yeah, how's that?
Four-year-old: His dad doesn't get angry when I get hurt. My dad gets really angry.
Related: Daniel's dad wouldn't make it a week with the four-year-old. I'd conservatively estimate that the kid falls down 25 times a day. I once saw him pretend that his mini-soccer goal was a spider web only to see him get his foot stuck in the net, trip, and fall face-first onto the corner of our deck. Fat lip, blood everywhere, a lot of screaming (mostly from me, obviously), and no rational explanation for why anybody would think that trying to intentionally trip themselves would end well.
There have been times (yes, times, plural) where I've seen the four-year-old walk directly into a wall. Don't even know how that's possible but, well, it is.
Then there was the time, this summer, when my wife got the bright idea to go on a family walk. Sounds innocuous enough until you remember what we're dealing with here. Things starting off well enough but about 30 minutes into it, the four-year-old, who was on his scooter, decided to go ahead on the path.
He made it about 30 feet before disaster struck. I didn't see the accident but I sure as hell heard it: a loud crash promptly followed by that easily recognizable cry that something has gone horribly wrong. Instinctively, my wife runs ahead to see what happened. I, knowing full well what happened, walk.
When I turn the corner I see the spectacle; a red-faced kid, sobbing uncontrollably, half-covered in dirt and grass. He explains, between full-body heaves, that he came around the corner, made his way down the hill, hit a hidden bump and went flying over the handle bars. Based on the looks of him, he broke the fall with his face.
This is what happens when you break a fall with your face. August 2015
The upside: I got to carry him the mile back home. Luckily, he cried the whole way. Added bonus: I also got to carry his scooter.
To be fair, the four-year-old was pretty banged up though, incredibly, he was back to his free-wheelin' ways a day later. It was almost as if he had no recollection of his life flashing before his eyes 24 hours before.
Also worth mentioning: Not a week goes by where the four-year-old doesn't get hurt at the bus stop. Every morning starts the same: I'll line he and his brother up at the door and give them the speech: "Okay, please don't run at the bus stop today or I'll (idle threat that no one -- me, them, the dog -- believes). Got it? Great, let's go."
And then, two minutes later, we're at the bus stop and guess what? They're running around. And guess what else? They fall down, usually with no one within 15 feet, which further fuels my suspicion that they both suffer from some form of pediatric vertigo (don't know if that's a thing; just came to me and it seems fitting). And while the eight-year-old doesn't get hurt nearly as often, it's a near certainty that if the four-year-old goes down, he's going cry.
At some point, the four-year-old will grow out of this, but it probably won't be anytime soon. I say this because just last week the eight-year-old fell down a flight of stairs. No idea how or why. All I know is, I'm sitting on the couch pretending to hear the television (let's be honest, if your kids are awake, you're literally "watching" the TV because you're sure as hell not going to hear it) when out of the corner of my eye I see a furry blur crash into the wall at the bottom of the stairs.
I glance over, make the "REALLY, AGAIN!? face and go back to "watching" television. My wife rushes over and I overhear the eight-year-old explaining that he has no idea what happened. Like he hasn't gone up and down those steps a thousand times.
He's fine, by the way. Can't say the same for me.
So, to recap:, Yes, I'm not as patient as Daniel the Tiger's old man. But tell Daniel's dad to walk a mile in my shoes -- with an angry four-year-old on his shoulders. Then we can talk.
Action shot, Spider-Man, Ninjago Kai. Oct. 2015
Halloween was a resounding success this insomuch as no houses were egged, no peanut allergies were aggravated and, perhaps most importantly, I avoided the scourge that has become pumpkin-flavored beer.
Below, a few photos of monkeys dressed up as a ninja and a superhero (click to enlarge).
View fullsize
View fullsize
View fullsize
In case you weren't aware, ninjas wear tennis shoes. And Spider-Man's suit is actually made from pajama-like materials (read: pajamas). Also: Spider-Man has a perm. (In the photo above, he's practicing how to use his web shooters.)
You have no idea the negotiations that went into getting the 4-year-old to pose for this photo. Oct. 2015
Tuesday started off like any other weekday morning: the wife left for work and the kids were up before me making all sorts of racket. But by this point, six weeks into the school year, the next 40 minutes -- from the time I roll out of bed until we head for the bus stop -- have been perfectly choreographed: go potty, brush teeth, change your underwear, head downstairs, put on the clothes I've carefully laid out (read: grabbed from the nearest pile of possibly clean laundry), sit down at the kitchen table for breakfast, feed the dog, put on your jacket, grab your backpack, brush your hair (HAHA, yeah right), and our the door.
The eight-year-old, now in third grade, knows the routine, though it took two good years to get him to this point. The four-year-old, who goes to preschool every morning for a few hours, is also surprisingly accommodating...
...Except Tuesday was different. The night before, his mom left out some overalls for him to wear. Seemed harmless enough, especially since the eight-year-old had worn those same overalls four years before, and prior to that, they belonged to his now-14-year-old cousin.
The four-year-old was the latest stop on the hand-me-down circuit. Also: there is nothing he won't wear. Four-year-old boys, unlike girls (I've been told), do not care about fashion. It's why he'll happily leave the house in sweatpants or high waters (of course, leave it to the hipsters to bring them back in style -- bearded nerds basically begging to be beat up) or pajamas.
So I was surprised when he was adamant about not wearing the overalls.
Worth mentioning: First, unlike his older brother, the four-year-old has never worn overalls. Not sure why this is since his wardrobe is one big hand-me-down closet and overalls were a staple of the eight-year-old's fashion identity. Maybe the whole farmer chic thing went over the four-year-old's head, and the thought of wearing jeans that covered two-thirds of his body seemed like a weird one.
"Wait, you don't want to wear these? Why not, they're really cool-looking," I explained.
"I don't want people to laugh at me."
"Look," I said, "People are already laughing at you. It has nothing to do with the amount of denim you're about to put on."
Okay, I didn't say that. And I wasn't even thinking it, mostly because I was shocked that the four-year-old was worried people would make fun of him for wearing what every kid that age wears. I investigated further but it was like talking to a seasoned criminal.
"Why do you think people will laugh?"
"I don't want to wear them."
"Yeah, I understand, but can you explain why you don't like them."
"I don't want to wear them," he repeats.
His bottom lip starts to quiver. Tears are about to be shed. He puts his hands over his eyes, starts crying and says again, "I don't want wear them."
Funny story: He's gonna have to wear them. It's 39 degrees outside, so shorts are out of the question. And literally every other pair of pants he owns are in the dirty clothes. And not the preliminary pile of dirty clothes, which is the garment equivalent of the five-second food-on-the-floor rule. You can still wear them if you absolutely have to -- or if your old man is too lazy to check the dryer for clean(er) clothes.
(Go ahead, judge me all you want. I don't care. The fact that I've made it this far is a moral victory for me and a beacon of hope for other like-minded -- read: lost -- fathers who have no idea what they're doing.)
I give some thought to letting him wear his Spider-Man PJs instead but those things are so tight that they look like they're painted on. So he's stuck with the overalls. But I have an ingenuous solution. My wife found a Han Solo-looking jacket that used to belong to the eight-year-old, so I tell the four-year-old that right before Han was frozen in Carbonite he was wearing overalls and this very jacket.
He seems intrigued.
So I put it on, zip it up and say, "You can't even tell you're wearing overalls! You look fantastic!"
"Yeah, look at that!" he said, no doubt taken in by my impromptu brilliance.
Preschool went smoothly, and when I picked him up there was no mention of the overalls. That said, as soon as we get home, the four-year-old goes to the bathroom and I see him emerge in his skivvies with his overalls slung over his shoulders like he's an extra in Deliverance after a long day on set. He declares that he's done wearing overalls, presumably forever.
This is the same kid, mind you, who 24 hours later, went to school looking like this:
This costume (okay, PJs) is much tighter in person than it appears here. MUCH tighter.
So yeah. The Force is strong with this one.
It's another Our Monkeys, My Circus Podcast, and on the latest episode, the eight-year-old and I talk about the new Star Wars trailer (THERE ARE SPOILER ALERTS), life before kids, and an in-depth conversation about bodily functions (shocking development: eight-year-old boys love all fart-related topics). We also have a quick geography lesson, I get his thoughts on Landry Jones' Steelers' debut, and we end with an update on what he and his brother will be for Halloween.
robot monkeys, aug. 2015
I was going through some recent photos and decided to post them here because, well, that's the whole point of having this blog. Anyway, I'm thinking of doing this once a month, maybe more.
The monkey pics below span the last six weeks, from our visit to Asheville, NC over Labor Day to last weekend's hike in the woods. Remember: you can view all the images here.
(Note: no monkeys were harmed in the making of these photos.)
View fullsize
View fullsize
View fullsize
View fullsize
View fullsize
View fullsize
On the latest Our Monkeys, My Circus Podcast, the eight-year-old and I start off by talking about things that scare us. (Related: the eight-year-old admits to being scared by Scrubbing Bubbles when he was younger. I got nothing.) We then talk to the four-year-old about things that "kinda creeps him out." This all leads to a predictable conversation about Halloween costumes (Ninajo-themed, naturally). We then talk a little NFL news -- Eli vs. Peyton (Eli wins out because, in the immortal words of the eight-year-old, "a kid in my class is named eli"), nicknames for Andy Dalton (Carrot Top Cannon prevails), and the Steelers' last-second win. Finally, the conversation turns to school bus barfing noises, stinky kids, selfie sticks, birthdays, woolly mammoths and humans with T-Rex arms.
On the latest Our Monkeys, My Circus Podcast, the eight-year-old and I talk geography (I found out we have listeners in Indonesia and England), and how how podcasts were a technological impossibility 15 years ago. That leads to a discussion about rotary phones and VCRs, and invariably, a "That must've been a terrible time to live" assessment from the eight-year-old. We also talk more NFL news -- Are the Rams moving to LA?! Can you believe the Dolphins fired their coach?! The Browns lost in heart-breaking fashion?! -- before returning to more important topics: the eight-year-old has started a Ninjas Are Cool Club and they're accepting members (related: good luck with that), we revisit the dangers of planning to scheme against neighborhood girls, and we end things with a pop-culture pop quiz where Selena Gomez and Justin Bieber get name-checks.
LEGO cuffs: necessity is indeed the mother of invention. oct. 2015
The wife had an all-day teaching workshop on Saturday (at least that's what she told me -- if not, hope she and her boyfriend had a blast), which meant me and the kids were left to fend for ourselves. No problem, even if I had to work, since I've been doing this for the better part of a decade. I even decided to document the day as it unfolded. And I'm glad I did.
Sometime before 7:30 AM: The wife leaves. I'm still asleep, even though the four-year-old is awake, and likely has been for some time. I finally get up at 8 because i have no choice. I hear him in the bathroom yelling, "IS ANYBODY THERE? I NEED HELP!" I'm not worried that maybe he's pinned under some heavy piece of furniture, or the dog had finally had enough and attacked him because we've had this conversation before.
He needs some help wiping his butt. When I ask why, he gives me some crazy reason that didn't make sense -- and wouldn't have made sense even if I wasn't half-asleep. So instead of trying to reason with him, which invariably leads to both of us yelling at each other, I just did it. Seemed like a perfect way to start the day.
8:12 AM: The eight-year-old is battling a cold and a sore throat, so he's still sleeping. Meanwhile, me and the four-year-old head downstairs for breakfast. Fun fact: the four-year-old, who a month ago would eat anything you put in front of him -- including construction paper made to look like a muffin -- is suddenly and excessively picky. It might be one of the most irritatingly underreported parts of being a parent.
You could point at anything and ask, "Hey, you want this?" And he would invariably respond, "I don't think I like that very much," which is infinitely more annoying that "nope." So instead of going through the list of things he won't eat, I offer up a cold piece of pepperoni pizza from the night before.
"Yes, please!"
Done and done.
8:27 AM: With the eight-year-old still sleeping, and me working, I give the four-year-old what I thought were some pretty simple instructions. "Okay, here's the deal: I just need you to play quietly. I don't mean you can't talk or move, but it would be awesome if you wouldn't jump, stomp, roll around like you're on fire, or pull every toy out of the toy bin because it makes too much racket. Deal?"
The four-year-old nodded ... right before he did all of the above and and even sang loudly for good measure. So we had the conversation again. And two more times after that.
"Sorry, I keep forgetting!" he explained.
I gave up.
8:31 AM: The eight-year-old came downstairs. Said he couldn't sleep. I'm as shocked as you.
11:02 AM: We head to our friendly neighborhood coffee shop, where both kids are local celebrities. Partly because the average age there is 93 and it's always nice to see people capable of walking without assistance, but also because, despite all my bellyaching, the monkeys are pretty good, especially in public.
One orders a chocolate milk, the other a strawberry smoothie, and that always leads to this conversation:
Me: "Please, for the love of all that's holy, hold the glass with two hands and move it away from the very edge of the table when you're done taking a sip."
I can only assume by their actions that their brain translates this into, "SWING YOUR ARMS WIDLY AROUND THE TABLE AND SEE IF YOU CAN KNOCK BOTH DRINKS ON THE FLOOR."
So I spend the next few minutes repeating myself before I finally move the drinks to the center of the table and have both kids sit on their hands.
12:12 PM: The kids play with LEGOs while I work. Note: my "office" is 18 inches from their play room. Which means I spend 95 percent of my time having some variation of this conversation:
Four-year-old: "Hey, dad, look at this thing I just made!"
Me: "Awesome. I can't believe you did that. Well done."
Ten seconds later...
Four-year-old: "Hey, dad, look at this thing I just made!"
And so on and so forth. I give up explaining that it's difficult to work with him chirping in my ear because while he says he "keeps forgetting" I'm convinced he just doesn't care.
1:01 PM: The eight-year-old yells for me from the other room. I ignore him because I hate it when my kids yell for me from the other room, and surely he'll remember this and come talk to me in my office.
He yells again. And once more.
I finally storm into the kitchen wondering what the hell he wants.
"I'm in the bathroom and my stomach hurts," he tells me.
"Just curious, but what do you want me to do?" I ask. "You're on the toilet, yes?"
"Yes I am. I just wanted to let you know."
"Duly noted."
1:35 PM: I mention something in passing about how they should make LEGO handcuffs for unruly kids. That gives my eight-year-old an idea. After several prototypes, he came up with these:
vader, captured. oct. 2015
Sadly, the strongest plastics known to man are no match for BABY VADER HULK, who frees himself with little effort.
2:32 PM: The kids head outside, and I give them my "because you guys are unreasonably clumsy and always get hurt" spiel: "Stay away from the deck. No running in the woods behind the house because it's only a matter of time before one or both of you impale yourself on an innocuous-seeming stick otherwise minding its business on the ground. Also: no yelling."
There is yelling, of course, but things go well ... until the eight-year-old breaks out the bubbles.
(By the way, bubbles are a societal scourge and possibly one of man's worst inventions. The bubble mix is sticky, which is ironic because my kids are constantly spilling it. Luckily, it stains too.)
3:04 PM: The four-year-old runs inside to tell me his brother isn't sharing the bubble gun. The reason? The eight-year-old insists it was gifted to him when he was four, and according to some law he makes up on the spot, he doesn't need to share it. I overrule him and threaten him with imprisonment. He relents.
bubblehead. oct. 2015
3:05 PM: I fire up the first glass of wine. Would've happened sooner but I forgot we had any left.
4:08 PM: They're back outside again. I give them The Spiel again. I'm informed that they'll only be pretending to be ninjas (thanks, NINJAGO). I'm also informed that the treehouse will serve as their "Ninjas Are Cool" clubhouse. It's known as "NAC" for short.
4:12 PM: The four-year-old falls out of the treehouse. (The only place on the planet where ninjas are terrible climbers.)
After a little investigative work I found out that the four-year-old was wearing LEGO handcuffs while climbing the ladder into the clubhouse. Apparently, it never occurred to the eight-year-old that this was a horrible idea.
A few minutes later, after the four-year-old had stopped crying and was ready to go back outside, I heard this exchange:
Eight-year-old: "To show that I'm sorry, you are promoted in this club."
Four-year-old: "I am?"
Eight-year-old: "You are now second in command."
(Editor's note: Pretty sure that's not really a promotion.)
Four-year-old: "Because I got hurt?"
Eight-year-old: "Because I'm really sorry."
I feel like the world would be a much better place if more disputes were handled like this.
4:13 PM: I refill my wine jug.
4:35 PM: I look outside to see the kids playing soccer. Honestly, it's the last thing I expected. I ask the eight-year-old what's going on.
"We're playing soccer to improve our ninja skills," he says.
I chug my wine so I can refill it.
(Seriously, it's something so I'll take it.)
5:55 PM: We're off to dinner because God forbid I actually cook something.
6:08 PM: Not making this up: twice the kids knock over their lemonades. Yes, the cups have tops, and nothing spills, but that doesn't make it any less egregious.
7:06 PM: We're back home, where I promise sugary treats before bed if the kids can get in their PJs without getting hurt.
7:30 PM: One last refill as the wife arrives home. The house hasn't been burned to the ground, which makes the day a resounding success.
On the latest Our Monkeys, My Circus Podcast, I'm joined by the eight-year-old to talk about the devastating news that Steelers' quarterback Ben Roethlisberger suffered a knee injury and will miss 4-6 weeks of action. (Related: the eight-year-old doesn't know Ben Roethlisberger from Ben Franklin -- Ben Kenobi is another story, however.) We also get into how weird it is that a grown man (me) can get so invested in a glorified game of dress-up (football) that it ruins his week. These emotional roller coasters don't exist in the world of Ninjago. Maybe there's something to be said about that.
Hyannis, July 2013
My eight-year-old is deathly allergic to nuts. We found this out when he was 18 months and my wife gave him peanut butter. He went from looking like himself to Violet Beauregarde in about 90 seconds.
But he's always been vigilant about letting people know about his strict no-nuts policy. It's been incredibly helpful because it keeps him from dying, but also because I'm the type of parent who figures Honey Nut Cheerios are fine because "Cheerios" is in the name, and everyone knows that Cheerios trump nuts.
(We didn't have nut allergies when I was a kid. It wasn't on anyone's radar so I've had to condition myself to be cognizant of it. Also not helping: I LOVE peanut butter. In fact, back when I had a real job that required me to leave the house and go push papers around in an office, I may or may not have kept a sleeve of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups in my desk drawer. And I may or may not have had to replace that sleeve a couple times a week.)
I mention all this because two years ago, when the eight-year-old was six and in first grade, I got a call from the school nurse.
Nurse: "Hi Mr. Wilson. Just calling to let you know your son accidentally had a Nutty Buddy at lunch."
Me: "Nutty Buddy? He ate something called a Nutty Buddy? 'Nut' is literally in the name!"
Nurse: "Yes it is. But he only had one bite before realizing what he did and he immediately told a teacher."
Me: "Right. But it's called Nutty Buddy.
Nurse: "Yes, I understand. So anyway, we administered the EpiPen -- he was great -- and because it happened at school we've had to call an ambulance. It's standard policy."
I got off the phone, texted my wife the details, and put the two-year-old in the car. We beat the ambulance to school, and walked into the nurse's office to see the six-year-old sitting quietly on one of those kid-sized hospital beds. He admitted to being a little scared, but said he was doing fine though he couldn't pinpoint why in God's name he decided to buy and then eat a Nutty Buddy.
(My wife and I have a theory: the eight-year-old has always loved school. Just loved it. But first grade was tough for a variety of reasons and we're guessing that when this happened -- it was towards the end of the school year -- he was generally distracted and pretty much tuned out to what was going on around him. Unfortunately, this made little difference to his immune system.)
The wife arrived a few minutes later and the ambulance wasn't far behind. The EMTs checked the six-year-old out and his vitals were good, but they were still required by law to transport him to the emergency room.
No problem since the wife would ride with him in, and me and the two-year-old would follow in the car.
But first, the EMTs had to put the six-year-old on a gurney. And that's where things got awesome.
The nurse's office is located in the center of the school, no more than 50 feet from the front door. So if something's going down teachers, students, visitors -- basically anybody who isn't legally blind -- will see it.
As the EMTs strapped the six-year-old to the gurney and rolled him into the hallway, two classes of kids walked by, gawking like, well, kids who suddenly realize one of their own is immobilized by two official-looking adults, and everyone knows such things only happen when something's gone horribly wrong.
Meanwhile, the six-year-old notices the attention, but because he's restrained from head to toe he can't really indicate that he's fine. Instead, I see a smile creep across his face because everyone will get to see him rolled out of school and into an ambulance. (I'm convinced that in his mind, this is a piggyback ride.)
The hospital was uneventful; the six-year-old was given a steroid and observed for a few hours, and after they gave us the all-clear, we went home.
That evening, we got calls from concerned friends and neighbors, many of whom heard the story second or third hand from their kids. One of the best: on the bus ride home, one of the kids on our street heard from a buddy that Kai had either broken his leg or was dead. (Sadly, no mention of anybody passing out at 31 Flavors.)
The lesson: If you have nut allergies don't eat something called a Nutty Buddy. But if you do know that the school-bus rumor mill will come up with a fantastic tale of your untimely demise.
The one photo I was able to take before things went horribly wrong. June 2015
Technically, the four-year-old has been potty-trained for more than a year. But potty-training isn't a discrete event like graduation or Christmas. There are going to be accidents, and all you can do is plan for them so you're not stuck at, say, a park with a kid who just peed all over himself.
That's where I found myself back in June, a few weeks before school let out for the summer. We had just put the eight-year-old on the bus and with nothing to do, I decided to take the four-year-old (who was three at the time) to a local park where there's a lake, miles of walking and bike paths and even a playground -- we'd be busy for at least couple of hours.
So with the best intentions, I park the car, unload the little man, and pull his scooter out of the back. Might as well tire him out when I have the chance because if I've learned anything from renowned parenting expert Cesar Millan, it's that exercise and discipline always come before affection.
We head down to the water so I can make up some facts about marine biology (hey, the kid was three -- what's the difference?) and before I could get to the part about the recent Loch Ness Monster sightings, I'm interrupted with, "Daddy, I need to go to the bathroom."
Four minutes. That's literally how long we were at the lake before those eight words left the three-year-old's mouth.
I don't recall the specifics, but I'm guessing my response went something like this: "Are you effing kidding me?" (Relax, I'm 65 percent sure I actually said "effing.") My problem wasn't that he needed to pee, it was that a) he didn't do it before we left the house and more importantly, b) I didn't make him do it before we left the house.
Because I'm from the reactionary school of parenting, I decided a while back that making up a bunch of mostly arbitrary rules would magically add structure to a situation that more closely resembled Thunderome.
One of those rules: You must always use the bathroom before we leave the house. NO EXCEPTIONS. (This is one of the few good rules, a fact that becomes meaningless because I often forget to enforce it.)
With no bathroom in sight, I decided that he would pee behind a tree down near the shoreline. Hey, if hobos can do it at 8:30 in the morning so can three-year-olds. I give him exceedingly detailed instructions on what was going to happen next.
"Okay, I'm gonna pull down your pants and your underwear and I want you to pee on that rock over there. No problem, right?"
"Okay," he said, with all the conviction of someone who knew they were about to pee all over themselves.
And then he proceeded to aim nowhere near that rock, but straight down, perpendicular to the ground. Unfortunately, the aforementioned underwear and pants were in the way, and caught every last drop. I'm not kidding. Pee didn't even accidentally hit the ground. It couldn't have been a more direct hit if I had him pee in a bucket and just tossed his underwear and pants in afterwards.
In the 15 seconds it's taken him to relieve himself I go from exasperated to enraged because I had somehow convinced myself that this wouldn't happen. I seem to remember trying to pick him up under his arms and aim him myself, like that was going to do something. Short of holding him parallel to the ground, gravity insured that no matter where -- or how high -- I chose to hold him, he was peeing on his clothes.
Again, I don't recall the specifics, but I'm pretty sure I yelled, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
Like he had some idea what he was doing. He didn't (duh) and he told me as much right before he started crying. So now I have a hysterical child soaked with pee and we're a good 500 yards from the car. With no real idea what to do next, I'm just laying into this poor kid about how he knows he shouldn't pee in his pants, how he has to tell me more than two seconds before he can no longer hold it that he needs to go, and how he ALWAYS needs to go before we leave the house.
(Mostly, I was projecting because I knew that this was 95 percent on me, save the five percent where he would rather hold it because he's under some weird impression that he's going to miss something by taking a minute to use the bathroom. That's a whole other story.)
By this point I'm livid. I tell him that he's going to have to walk back to the car because I'm not going to carry him (and I have to carry his scooter) and I also instruct him that he better not cry because this all could have been avoided.
Let me tell you: there is no sadder sight than watching a three-year-old who has clearly peed through his clothes waddle behind his father while trying to stifle tears.
We make it to the car, I strip him down and sit him butt naked in his car seat. And for the first time ever, he did not say a word on the drive home. The worst part: I couldn't even enjoy it because I felt terrible for going off on him.
Much later, after I calmed down, I realized that my fatal flaw was letting him aim himself instead of me doing it for him. And I'll be honest: I did this for one simple reason: Nothing screams pervy old dude like some balding guy with a camera standing behind a tree with a half-naked three-year-old.
Yes, I know, any rational person watching all this would've just assumed that I was helping my son not pee all over himself. Instead, any rational person watching all this probably thought, "My God, that man is going to toss that little boy into the middle of that lake."
But there's a happy ending. By the time I pulled into the garage we were talking, and after exchanging apologies, I explained why it's so important to use the bathroom whenever you feel the urge. He agreed and we went on with the rest of our day like it never happened.
Of course, he wet his pants later that night because, well, that's what three-year-olds do.
On the very first Our Monkeys, My Circus Podcast, Ryan and the eight-year-old talk Ninjago, Star Wars and the NFL.
Outsmarted by this guy, Sept. 2015
Maybe fraud is too strong a word but the underlying truth is that at some point your kids, who just assumed you were infallible for the first six or seven years of their life, slowly come to the realization that not only are you capable of being wrong, despite a 30-year head start, you're not even that smart.
This lesson was brought home with a resounding thud the other day. The eight-year-old, who consumes roughly 20,000 calories a day, is always hungry. This is not an exaggeration. Not 10 minutes goes by before he asks, "What else do we have to eat?"
So the other morning, in the 90 seconds between finishing breakfast and feeding the dog (which no doubt reminded him that he was due to eat again), he decided to double down. Instead of asking for more cereal, the eight-year-old asked for one of those Simply Balanced Fruit Strips (you know what I'm talking about).
My knee-jerk reaction: "Nope. It's way too early for you to be hopped up on sugar. Pick something else."
His response: "No, these are good for you, I promise."
At this point, I'm starting to get angry because we've had this conversation a million times. I say something, he tries to explain the nuances of what I said and what I really think, and how, if I take a closer look we're really on the same page about this.
But we're not.
So I say, "Listen, here's the deal: If any form of sugar is listed in the first four ingredients, not only are you not getting it, you will not be allowed to play with your Ninjago LEGOs for a week. (If a week sounds extreme, it is; I was hoping he'd weigh the consequences and just drop the whole thing. He didn't.)
Eight-year-old: Okay.
Me: Fine.
So he proceeds to read out the ingredients:
A shit-eating grin creeps across his face as his eyes slowly go from the side of that box to back me. I had been outwitted by what I thought was an innocent, unassuming kid. It took eight years, but the tables had finally turned, my authority -- my unquestioned genius -- now hanging in the balance.
This feels like a "Game of Thrones" moment. I just need to figure out how not to end up like, well, everyone but Tyrion Lannister.
FOUR, Sept. 2015
I once heard that the number of kids you should invite to your kid's birthday party is n+1, where n = your kid's age. So for my youngest, who turned four in a Harrisburg, PA hotel room last week (more on that in a second), that would mean four friends would join him in celebrating his big day.
On Saturday, we had the party and while I didn't take a head count, I'll conservatively guess we had 50 people at our house. In my defense, this was less about my son's birthday and more about me and the wife blowing off steam. (In completely different ways, mind you; she loves to cook and entertain, I love to pound beers, commiserate with like-minded -- read: overwhelmed -- dads and eventually pass out face down in the play room.) After a summer that went by in fast-forward in July only to feel like slow motion in August, I was ready for school to start. The lack of structure, both for me and the kids -- but mostly the kids -- along with the constant complaints of boredom and hunger are enough to make you an unwavering proponent of year-round education.
So last year we began this tradition of inviting neighbors, family and friends over to celebrate both the little man's birthday and the return of another school year. It went so well we did it again over the weekend -- this time with an expanded guest list.
We probably had 20 kids there, from 18 months to 14 years old, and other than the play room looking like it had been carpet-bombed by a drunk Santa, there wasn't any child-on-child violence that I was aware of. Though, to be fair, I make it a point to be blissfully ignorant of what kids are doing to each other because I don't like dealing with the inevitable awkwardness that comes with having to confront someone else's little monster.
Great parenting, I know, but don't misunderstand: It's not like I'm abandoning my kids in the face of danger. I only ignore the potential "Lord of the Flies" situations when my wife's around. But if I'm running solo with the kids, I go to great lengths to avoid these circumstances altogether. That means no playgrounds, malls, after-school get-togethers and play dates because little people, in general, are nuts. And forget trying to rationalize with the truly insane ones. Invariably, that leads to blank stares from horrified onlookers and "What the hell did you think would happen?!" looks from parents who have been there before.
Play room, the day after. Note little man in the background, still in the collared shirt he wore to his party the day before ... and his tighty whities.
And yes, I know, a lot life is about managing the dumbasses in your universe. Don't worry, I've got that covered; I'm the dumbass in my kids' lives. Trust me, they get plenty of practice with that.
(So here's the lesson: Hey parents, if you're in public with your kids, how about you keep an eye on what they're up to? I know you're exhausted and possibly hungover but guess who else has problems to work through? Problems, by the way, that shouldn't include making sure your lil' pumpkin isn't wreaking havoc in our general vicinity. Okay, that escalated quickly. Moving on...)
About that hotel birthday...
So we traveled from upstate New York to Asheville, NC and back over Labor Day weekend, and while 800 miles is a long way to drive under any circumstance, there's no way it's happening with two kids in the car.
(Not an exaggeration: I heard "Do we have anything else to eat?" every 15 minutes. This is not an exaggeration. Hey, kids, you realize we're in the car and not sitting in La-Z-Boys in the Twinkie aisle at 7-11, right? RIGHT?!)
So we stopped on the way down and again on the way back. And when we woke up Monday in a Harrisburg, PA Residence Inn to drive the last leg of the trip, it also happened to be the newly turned-four-year-old's birthday.
That conversation went like this:
Me: Hey, it's time to get up, we're going home today. Oh, and it's your birthday!
(His eyes open, he quickly sits up, looks around, and realizes where he is.)
Four-year-old: How can it be my birthday in a hotel?
Me: (stares blankly)
Two monkeys, June 2012
In terms of age, my two sons are 4.5 years apart. In terms of disposition, they're from different planets. Which means I spend a lot of my time comparing them. Because that's what parenting is all about: Keeping score, picking a favorite, and hoping that one makes enough money to take care of you when you're crapping your pants on the reg.
Anyway, I've been scribbling on the Internet since 2004, and sometimes I stumble across words I'd written years ago, having no memory of originally putting them there. This happened the other day. And it reminded me that despite their differences, kids -- mine, yours, all of them -- are basically the same.
My oldest is eight (and a half, he'll remind you). Here's a conversation we had in April 2011, when he was four:
four-year-old: can i have some gum?
me: do you remember the rules?
four-year-old: just chewing, no swallowing.
me: right.
(five minutes later…)
me: hey, where’s your gum?
four-year-old: sorry.
My youngest just turned four. Here's a talk we had in January 2014, when he was two:
(driving in the car, 3 degrees outside)
two-year-old: Daddy, my hands are cold.
me: Why did you take your mittens off? Why don’t you put your hands in your pocket?
(after a beat)
two-year-old: My pockets are cold too.
Translation: "Your move, old man."
'I got nothing,' september 2015
Back in June, I was on CBSNews.com to talk about the after-school special that is Tom Brady, Roger Goodell and the (still) never-ending Deflategate melodrama. This isn't about that. This is about how I had to bribe my then-three-year-old for 15 minutes' peace to do the interview in the first place.
With preschool over, weekdays consist of me and the little guy finding ways to amuse ourselves until 3:30pm. Most days, it's easy. Writing from home means I can dress like a hobo while my kid runs around the house pretending to be Darth Vader. Yes, it involves me answering some form of the same question roughly 200 times, but it could be worse.
But when I'm forced to talk to folks outside my house, whether on the radio or through Skype or whatever, thing things become slightly more complicated.
Usually, I'll prep the three-year-old with some version of, "Okay, here's the deal: Daddy has to make an important phone call so I need you to sit on the couch and watch Backyardigans. And unless it's an emergency, YOU CAN NOT GET UP. Got it? Great!"
Invariably, my son will sashay into the room where I'm talking on the phone and proceed to have a conversation with me about LEGOs, our dog, cheese -- no topic is too obscure. And there really is no rhyme or reason to it other than, like clockwork, he'll show up to interrupt me minutes after agreeing to, you know, not interrupt me.
So when CBSNews.com called to set up the interview, it pretty much meant that I'd need to incarcerate the little guy.
And that's exactly what I did.
Fifteen minutes before CBS called, I had him use the bathroom (this is the oldest trick in the book -- put him somewhere only to have him yell, 'I NEED TO GO POTTIES!' seconds later), then I put him in his bed, gave him the iPad, fired up Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends, and told him to enjoy the show while giving him the same old "Daddy has to make an important phone call" speech.
But this time, I also put up a baby gate outside his bedroom, essentially locking him in. Because we all know he'd end up downstairs to see what I was up too, and nothing classes up a pretending-to-be-serious interview like a three-year-old walking through the shot asking you for a refill on his chocolate milk.
Miraculously, everything went off without a hitch. The interview wasn't a complete disaster, and the little man seemed to thoroughly enjoy that 15-minute break from his old man.