What's Up, What I Like, and a Cute Kid Story

Let's see.

Work is going much better since I proclaimed my independence from repression.

My writers group starts tonight. This is a very good thing. If I have any ability to predict the future based on accurate assessments of the motivations of people, I would say that this group will be composed of serious writers that intent to write a novel or short story for publication. The moderator will be the professor from the class I took the previous semester. He is a published author at St. Martin's Press of several mysteries and thrillers, and is talented in my estimation to boot (the two don't always go hand in hand, although one is obviously a strong indicator of the other).

I'll be reading the chapter I have been writing for two months now. Understand that I don't have much time to write seriously. As it is I have to cheat my lunch hours longer, and at home it is tres difficult after giving the kids baths, reading stories and putting them to bed. My brain at that point feels like a shriveled prune. I have just enough energy to watch one TV show (I know, that's cheating), then to crawl into bed and read until I fall asleep (I know, that's not cheating).

Speaking of, have I told anyone that you have to watch Friday Night Lights? The relationship between the coach and his wife is priceless. They are so real, and yet so perfect -- but not in a Brady Bunch kind of way. This might be biased male perspective, but she is in many ways the female ideal, in a realistic sense. She's no pushover, yet at the same time, she gives so much. When her husband decides he doesn't like what she is doing, he insists that she quit. What does she do? She tells him to deal with it. He laughs and says that there's never a dull moment. He's typically blind like men are when it comes to emotional nuance, and she is acutely aware. You just have to see it to understand. So tune in.

Oh, this is why I wanted to write a post today. A month or so ago, Emmett refused to let Jackson sleep in his bed. Jackson was crushed, and told me as I tucked him into his own bed that Emmett didn't love him anymore. I explained that Emmett is only three; that he is going through a phase that will soon pass. I also told him how much Emmett tries to be just like him, how he laughs at all his jokes. Why do you think he always wants to play with the same toys you play with, I told him. Nothing satisfied Jackson though, and I know he went to sleep with that weighing on his mind.

Emmett has refused to give him a kiss goodnight many times since. But two nights ago, Emmett and I tucked Jackson into bed first. "Emmett," I said, "do you want to give Jackson a kiss goodnight?"

Emmett leaned over the bed and did so. As Emmett turned and pulled a plastic dinosaur from the toy rack along the wall by Jackson's bed, Jackson said, "I love you Emmett."

I could see the anticipation in his eyes as he watched Emmett. There was a pause. It was a long pause for me too, time enough for me to hope fervently as well. For though I knew it was true, Jackson needed to hear it.

"I love you too Jackson," Emmett said, still fascinated with the Brontosaurus.

Jackson looked at me and beamed -- his smile comical for the missing front tooth, angelic in its unguarded radiance.

A coworker and nascent friend told me candidly that he doesn't like kids, and may never have any of his own. I feel sorry for him.

My Little Star Wars Fan

My son Jackson has been playing a video game called Star Wars Legos, which renders all the characters from the original trilogy -- Luke, Han, Chewy, Leia, Obi Wan, Darth Vader, the Emperor, etc -- and in fact, the entire Star Wars universe, entirely as Lego constructions. When a character dies, it shatters into a pile of Legos. Jackson has really taken to it.

Previously, when he was a couple years younger, I tried to watch the first movie with him. If you recall, it begins with a space chase. The tiny rebel ship is swallowed by the enormous Imperial Cruiser. The tense John Williams score pounds in your chest as the Storm troopers blast through the door, and the evil Lord Vader chokes a man who refuses to talk. Jackson made me turn it off.

But last night, his curiosity peaked by the events of the game, he finally watched it with me. He peppered me with questions, all the while. Are those bad guys? Are they dead? Where is his light saber? Where is Yoda? Is that Boba Fett? Is this where R2D2 gets hurt?

Does Obi Wan Knobie die? No, he just disappears.

Where does he go? He becomes a ghost and follows Luke wherever he goes.

During the dog fight scene, Jackson pulled his knees to his chest and smiled for most of the time, until he noticed that all the good guys kept getting killed. But when Han Solo saves the day and Darth Vader spins off into space, he was elated.

Afterwards, he took out the light saber we got him for Christmas, searched his feelings, and felt the force flow through him.

Ahhh.

On a separate note, I've decided to get behind my home team, the New England Patriots. Dallas is my favorite team, and that will never change. What got me thinking is that Jackson's school has a Patriots day for the kids. My son, both of them eventually, will naturally become fans, and I don't want to be cheering against them, or causing them conflicting loyalties.

So good luck this weekend Pats. Or should I say, continued good luck.

On raising children

Let the children play. And if it's not too much to ask, get out of the way

Me: Just Now

Move on if you beat your kids or condone it. It's one of those days.

You've been warned.

I was in the right aisle now, looking for the smallest and cheapest bottle of dish soap. The kids found a box of ice scrapers and pulled out one apiece. The store was practically empty; but a frumpy, graying woman browsed the same aisle, clearly annoyed that the kids ran back and forth between me and the scraper box.

Jackson's scraper knocked on the ground, so the lady turned to him and practically spat, "Those aren't hockey sticks!"

I turned to her and boomed, "Thank you!"

We stared at each other for a spell, me with raised eyebrows. She scrutinized my face for intent, but I wore the mask of amusement.

"My kids are all grown up," she told me, "and moved away."

I'll bet they wasted no time. I didn't reply. I turned to the kids. "Put the hockey sticks away; it's time to go."

"It's the hardest job in the world, raising children," she said to my retreating back.

I turned and looked at her. "Actually, I think it's a lot of fun."

Now, I know the waitresses of the world are spitting coffee at the computer monitor, thinking of all the little shits that have run under their feet, and all the youngsters and crusty curmudgeons are reliving every flight they've taken with a screaming kid a seat away.

Frankly Miss Scarlett, I don't give a damn.

I won't argue with you. You can hate kids, or live in that gray shadowland in between and call it what you will.

I'm not raising my kids to make you happy. I'm raising them to be happy.

Want to tell me that I'm not raising them right, that someday they'll land in jail because they haven't been prepared for the realities of the world? Go ahead. Check with me in twenty years and we'll compare notes. I'll take my chances.

I'm a product of "spare the rod" parenting, and I turned out just fine. But I'll never be happy. Not really. I'll come as close as one can come to being happy without really being happy, because deep inside I'll always be that kid whose mother left, whose step-mother beat, whose life was uprooted on a whim, who came in second, third, fourth and last in all things, always seen and not heard, the poster child for the strict discipline to which America so pines to return.

I won't debate it. I know what you think. It used to make me sad. I used to think I could make you see. But I realize that it doesn't matter any more. But don't step in my way anymore because I am tired of straddling the fence. Try to impress me with your morals anymore, and I will impress upon you back.

But it's not your fault, and I have to remember that.

How long until we figure out that love is the answer, and not a leather strap, a swiss cheese paddle, the back side of a hand, an open slap, a balled fist, or biting words of derision to a three year old child who doesn't know the meaning of the word share?

Answer: never. We are delusional and damn smug about it.

I see New England moms yelling at kids, shaming them for answering the call of their mercurial spirit. Don't worry parents. You will win the fight. You always do. That little spirit is large, but then so is a mountain. Tell that to the river and it will tell you that time is on its side. Your kids will grow up just like you, whether they like it or not. And that is why they will hate themselves and never fit in.

And you will be proud because they will hide it, never confront you, and even console you when you cry out in a fit of momentary clarity.

First Poop

My two year old son had his first poop in the potty today. You simply have to be a parent of young children to find this even remotely appetizing. Unfortunately I was at work for this occasion, tantamount to a report card of straight A's. I got the email, so I gave him a call from the hallway and gave him much love and enthusiasm. It's a great day people!

This post will be the recipient of my ten thousandth visit, and I'd rather celebrate it with good news than with an article inspiring political debate--good natured though it is.

Some of you have been with me from the beginning, like Mr. Schprock and Natalie the Magnetbabe. Others nearly that long, and others it just seems like that long because we are old souls. Thank you all for being my friends. You all inspire me in different ways.

Lost Nail

My youngest son had his finger shut in a door yesterday and lost the whole nail. The part under the skin too. He was calm when I met up with the family in the emergency room, but when he saw me he reached out and sniffled.

The beotch doctor told me that it may never grow back with a stone face, then lingered with the is-there-anything-else look. I felt like punching her for her worn out apathy. We might be cattle to you bitch, but that's my son you are regarding like bacteria in a petrie dish. Three hours and they sent us home with a bandaid.

I finished my Midnight Road entry for Jason's short short contest, but I want to look it over before submitting. The deadline is the 28th, so what's the hurry? Maybe I'll write a few more and pick from my favorites. I liked my second entry in the Two Lights contest better than my official entry anyway.

Have a good weekend all.

A Day At The Zoo

Not much time. I'll visit as I'm able.

Yesterday I was at the zoo with my son's Kindergarten class as a chaperone. Each volunteer got his or her own kid, and one other for good measure. We sat together on a school bus. While I read a book (Old School--again), Jackson and his little friend wrestled, screamed, spat and burped all the way there. Of course I did my part as a responsible adult. When his friend burped the alphabet, I was very complimentary.

Chaperones were to worry only about their chargees. Is that a word? Or am I just integrating Smokey and the Bandit into my lexicon? I saw her before we got on the bus, and I just knew. Knowing this, I took my chargees and sprinted into the zoo before it was too late. It always happens to me, because I am so nice and unpretentious, that the freakiest moms tune into my frequency and stick like flies to a sticky ribbon trap. Then I bumped into her. From them on, I had my very own remora. "Hey, we've seen the lions and the tigers already. But no bears yet! Oh my. Bwa-ha-ha-ha haaaaaa!


Ok, I'd love to chat, but I have to get some work done. For real.

World Cup Day

Tee-ball got rained out, but the sun came out on Sunday. It was World Cup day. My team represented Italy in the parade. The Jamaicans actually wore Marley dreadlock wigs. I did indeed step in as coach for three twenty minute games. The first game was against what I have considered the best team in our league. They have one kid who plays two years ahead of his age. Once he gets in the open you can just add one to their score. We lost five to two. The kids were disappointed, but I told them honestly that I was very proud of them. They played so hard that the ball was mostly lingering on the other side of the field. Were it not for their star player and his breakaways, it would at least been close. I could have made it closer by playing one of the kids back as a preventative measure. Ooops. Forgot.

The next game we won and the kids loved it. For some reason, one of the girls on our team became inspired by the soccer spirit and scored three goals all on her own. The last game was a tie. We had it wrapped, but some kid that was no bigger than my two year old ran circles around everyone and rifled the tying shot into the net.

Not a bad way to end the season. I don't want to brag, but here I go. The only other game we've won all season was the one I coached. The team that beat us five to two this weekend was the team that earlier in the season completely dominated, scoring in the teens, prompting the coaches to add another player to our side in the hopes of slowing them down, which it didn't. That's why I told the kids that I was proud of them. They played tough and made a great team work for it.

My son was a whiz on defense.

Today I am chaperone to Jackson's kindergarten class at the zoo. Tomorrow I'm a full-timer.

The Tooth Faggot

Sorry for the incredibly insensitive and polictically incorrect use of the English language, but I'm a redneck country boy and that's the way it's gonna be, so move along little dogey.

But I digress. You will understand when the post is over.

My son lost his first tooth last night. It came out eating a pretzel. So of course we had him put it under his pillow. At dinner he asked us how big the tooth fairy is. "I've never seen the tooth fairy, have you mama?"

"No I haven't," she said. In that we were being completely honest. Again the twinge of guilt for selling a myth. I can't help but think though, that I am discouraging rational thought.

This morning as I was sneaking down the stairs--as part of my normal routine--Jackson appeared like Samantha on Bewitched. You know, suddenly.

"Guess what daddy."

"What." My face was a mask of curiosity.

"The tooth fairy came last night."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah, and guess what she left me?"

"What?"

"Five dollars!"

I'm pretty sure that, if he does eventually discover the truth behind the myth, say from one of his friends at school, that he'll allow this to continue.

Sort of unrelated, but connected by a tendril, is an old skit on Saturday Night Live. It turns out it was Dennis Miller's last day as the evening news anchor. Farley played guest speaker Stormin' Norman Schwartzkopf, responding to complaints from the gay and lesbian community in regards to his use of the term 'military fairies', applied to Pentagon insiders criticizing the Army. I leave you with Farley's brilliant retort:

Let me say right off that, when I used the term "fairy", I was speaking colloquially. Where I grew up in New Jersey, the word "fairy" was often substituted for other terms. For instance, on my block, the Staten Island Ferry is called the Statan Island Gay Boy. And, of course, we all believed in the Tooth Faggot!

I'll Try to Remember That

I emailed my manager yesterday. I have a parent-teacher conference in the early afternoon. If it's ok with you I'd like to work at home.

Normally I don't get a reply from him. In such cases I figure he was too busy to grant my request, so I assume the answer I wish to hear. His response this time was immediate. should be a problem. thx for the heads up.

I wrote back: Did you mean--should not be a problem?

Reply: Er, yeah, I typed too fast.

So here I am with an extra hour of sleep and caffeine worming through my bloodstream. In other words: feelin' good.

Originally, both my wife and I were both going to the conference, but we forgot one pesky detail. What to do with the kids? So, I'm babysitting instead. Damn. I love hearing about my son. The last conference was all positive--he's delightful, plays well with the other kids, pays attention, does well academically with a few developmentally predictable exceptions.

But we still don't have any friends that we can dump two kids on for a couple hours. That's not totally true. We don't have any reliable friends. We have a neighbor Tracy that was all over us like peanut butter to the roof of a dry mouth. She invited us to join her church. We finally took her up on that offer three weeks ago and have gone religiously (sorry, couldn't resist) every Sunday since. Tracy invited my wife to join a women's group soon after, and Beth was so excited. We felt like we were starting to make connections. But the group was really a bible study, much more than either of us is ready for. We got an invitation over the phone from another member of the church, who got our number from Tracy, for another bible study group. I called him back and declined. Politely though, I promise.

Here is approximately what I said:

"We haven't gone to church since we've been married, and are starting down this path slowly. We owe it to our children to introduce them to the teachings of the church so that they can make their own decisions. As for us, a bible study group might me a little much for our level of commitment. But I really appreciate your kind offer."

He was very understanding. But after that, our neighbor cancelled a play-date for the kids, and hasn't called since.

One of my readers, Jada's Gigi, told me to remember that people are fallible, not God.

I'll try to remember that.

Love is Alive

It's been said that kids are the death of romance. But I beg to differ. Take this Sunday for instance. For all intents and purposes we were trapped indoors by the onslaught of rain. Entire streets in our town were cut off by flood, some businesses closed. So we stayed home-and the kids went crazy. They ran up and down the hallway screaming; tore cushions from the couch and built forts; dumped bins of toys on the floor to play with a single figurine. When the fun of all that wore off, say, after about fifteen minutes or so, Jackson started into teasing his little brother.

It's quite amusing really. The technique Jackson has mastered is one that marketing people spend four years at college to master. It's called Creating the Need. It goes something like this:

He sneaks a furtive look to see if the we are watching. Ah, the coast is clear. "Hey Emmett, I've got a toy diiinosaurrrrrr, a velociraptor! Isn't it cool?"

Emmett's eyes snap to attention, and his hands reach out. "Let me see."

"Sorry, this is special to me, and I'm not ready to share."

"MINE!!!!"

"It's my turn to play with it Emmett," he says indignantly.

"What is going on here," I say, pretending not to know already. Then I listen as Jackson weaves his tale of misery and woe. I explain about sharing and teasing for the thousandth time, while Jackson hears the blah-blah-blah, and Emmett waits expectantly for deliverance of the raptor that he must have to feel right with the world again.

Back in the kitchen, my wife waits for super dad to return. She puts her arms around me, and whispers in my ear. "You just wait until the kids are in bed."

That got my attention. "Yeah?" I say with a sly smile.

"Tonight is the Sopranos!"

You see? The Judds said it best. Love is alive, and here by me-on the couch.

My Little Green Dragons

I am the assistant coach of my son's soccer team, and had to stand in as coach all of last week while the real coach was out of town. We had only had two games previous, and as of yet we hadn't scored a single goal. The kids are only in kindergarten, around six years old, and the coach doesn't believe in pushing them at all because he wants them to have fun. His own son is on the team and hangs on his leg like a remora to a shark.

Last Thursday was my first practice with the kids, and I had big plans to teach them to get between the goal and the ball. There are no goalies, and only four kids play on a team. The goal is small, so if the kids could just be a little obstructive, the other team would have a hard time scoring even once. It sounds simple, but we're talking about six year olds, who get distracted if a bee flies by.

Parents are funny. I was the official stand-in coach, but as soon as the other fathers got wind of the coach's absence, every one of them had to have a hand in it. It was chaos. I didn't assert my authority because frankly I felt foolish to be arguing over something so silly. But come game day, on Saturday this weekend, I was definitely the coach, as the other fathers stayed on the sidelines.

I've listened to the kids over the first two games, and watched the other team players walk by after scoring a goal and yelling, "What's the score now? Like eight to nothing!? Ha ha ha." Jackson noticed when the coaches allowed our team to keep five on the field to balance the scales. "Hey, we have five and they only have four." I could only tell him the truth that the other team was giving us a chance to catch up. He didn't say anything more, but I saw his eyes.

Our players just fiddle around, shadow boxing while the ball whizzes around the field. Even Jackson only jogs like he missed his breakfast. The kids have been nearly dead, no enthusiasm whatsoever, and the coach always smiles and says, "Well, at least the kids had a good time."

Well I say, bull-fucking-shit.

Saturday's game started out like all the rest. The kids were hard to keep focused, but I'm allowed to be on the field with them, to guide their actions. We went down a few goals early. They had a few players that were so focused, really good, that ran all over the field uncontested. My son played back on defense and I told him to shadow the ball from side to side, and when it came close to kick the skin off it. And miraculously, as I looked back, he was doing just that. I've never seen him so determined. The other kids started playing too. I got in their ears and pushed them to run, I was yelling across the field like a general, not caring what the parents thought. I was determined to get at least one goal today. Then the second miracle happened. Shawn, the most distractible of all the kids, came alive and dribbled through the whole crowd and planted one in the middle of the goal.

Then the other kids snapped out of their trances too, and two other players did the same. At half time, one of the parents ran out to the referee, standing right next to me, and asked what the score was. She looked at me and said dutifully, "not that it matters mind you."

"You're damn right it matters," I said back. She smiled as she found out we were playing a tied game.

But then there was James. James is a portly little guy who can barely move his big body, and he is all ours. Since he can't run much, I put him on defense and told him to watch the goal. They scored on him. He looked at me with eyes almost crying and said, "I never do anything! Not against the black team, not against the blue team. Not against anybody."

"That's because you don't run kid." He looked up at me, surprised. I continued, "All you need to do is get those wheels turning and give it everything you got. I promise you that you will make things happen." Within minutes, James was facing down the other team's soccer ace, who had managed to beat everyone and was racing towards the goal. James ran right at him and kicked the ball away from him and collided solidly, and both kids fell back stunned. James looked up at the sky and thought about crying, until my big mug filled his world. "Now that is defense my little friend." He smiled. "Now get up and do that again." The ball went down the field and we scored again, and the kids all flocked around me and we slapped the high fives. James said, "Hey, what about me?" I kneeled down and held out my palm, "I saved the best for last."

We won six to five, and it was the most fun those kids, and those kids' parents have had in three games. The parents looked at me different after the game, and a few mentioned that I should have my own team next year. I have to say, it was a thrill. Who'd have thunk that coaching little kids could be so satisfying?

Who Dies First?

Jackson asked me last night, “Who’s going to die first daddy, me or Emmett?”

“You two are only a couple years apart, so I call it a dead heat.”

“What’s a ‘dead heat’?”

“It means that it’s so close it doesn’t matter.”

“I think I’ll die first because Emmett is younger than me.”

“Well… If you take care of yourself, eat healthy, stay away from drugs and alcohol, you’ll have much better odds of living longer.”

“What are ‘drugs’?”

“Drugs are what people take to make themselves feel really good for a very short amount of time, which makes them want more and more until someday it kills them.”

“It kills them?”

“It can. Many teenagers today die from drug overdose, which means taking too much.”

Jackson thought about this for a moment. “Do you drink alcohol?”

“Sometimes, but only the occasional beer or a glass of wine.”

“Will it make you die?”

“It’s not good for me I guess, but it won’t kill me.”

“I think you are going to die before momma.”

I screwed my face up in mock shock, and he laughed. “That’s why we have life insurance.”

“What’s ‘life insurance’?”

How did this conversation get started anyway?

Terrible Twos

Having kids is great, but today I’m going to complain. I’m reluctant to do so, much for the same reasons that our president, at least in my estimation, is reluctant to admit to a mistake—it feeds the opposition like water to the cracked, dry earth.

Our two year old, Emmett, has officially crossed over to his terrible two’s, a cliché I know, but as for every well-worn expression, the origin can be traced to a powerful source. He won’t sleep anymore, not unless mommy or daddy gets in bed with him. We are trying to hold out, but sitting in a rocker next to his bed is like riding coach as an annoying flight attendant rams your lolling head with the drink cart. After an hour of faking sleep and checking to see if his eyes were closed using the barely-open-eye-slit method, I gave up and hopped into bed with him.

I turned over with my back to him, and he complained until I rolled over to face him. I was quite frustrated, now looking him in the eyes, nose to nose. He smiled and stroked my cheek and said, “Thanks daddy.” This is where I will resist the urge wax poetic on parenthood. You don’t need to ask do you? I’m a sucker.

Mommy swapped places with me at three. This morning she could barely talk on the phone, as signs of weariness and frustration were setting in. She feels like a bad mother, for being too tired to take the kids anywhere. Ironic, isn’t it?

A Little Poop Humor

As much as you try parents, you can’t avoid it. You might as well tell the Greenland icecaps to stop melting. Sooner or later you are going to find the key to that creaky old box that holds your childhood memories, blow off the dust, open it up and pull out a few of those old poop jokes that caused you to spit Cap’n Crunch all over your sister at the breakfast table.

Or maybe it’s just me. I read in the Pocket Parent, or rather it was read to me by my wife after interrupting my own reading of Terry Pratchet for the fifth time, that one technique parents have adopted is to take one night off from discipline and let the children reprimand them for bad behavior. The parents play with their food and belch, and probably make other bodily noises I imagine, and the kids run out of breath laughing so hard.

My wife resisted it for a couple years. It started when I came home with a volume of Captain Underpants books. My wife put her foot down, and the books went into the darkest recesses of the catch-all closet. We gave it to Jackson for his sixth birthday, and now, every night before bed, Jackson and I read them together.

If you can handle a little potty humor, these books push the silly button for a young boy. The author Dav Pilkey is like Tom Hanks in Big, who is a young boy in a man’s body. This guy remembers what it was like.

Some people won’t like these books because the heros are two young boys who cause trouble, always pranking. They get in trouble with their principal Mr. Krupp, so they hypnotize him with a hypno-ring. Now every time Mr. Krupp hears the snapping of fingers, he becomes Captain Underpants. Later he acquires actual super powers by drinking Super Power Juice found in the cockpit of the space ship of alien invaders. Sounds silly? You bet. That’s why the kids love it. My son laughs so hard that he falls into choked silence for long stretches and his mouth wide open.

Last night we read this joke:

Why did Tigger stick his head in the toilet?
Because he was looking for Pooh.

And:

Knock knock?
Who’s there?
I’m a pile-up.
I’m a pile-up who?
That’s not true; don’t be so hard on yourself.

Jackson is still laughing.

Irkle Finkle Butt

Work is going to be intense for the next couple days, so I'll resume my college thread soon. One of our customers hit us with ten times the load that we ever expected, and yours truly has to do some fancy programming and slide it through the back door, under the radar so to speak, before the customer pulls out.

Yesterday morning, my five-year-old Jackson came into our bedroom at six in the morning. My wife and I were playing dead for our two-year-old Emmett, who was thrashing about and scrutinizing our faces for signs of being awake.

Jackson said, "Irkle finkle butt." In his hand was a racecar toy we bought him a couple years ago that long since stopped working, but had been the source of many strange noises in the past. A while ago, I heard an eerie bell, the kind of ringing that plays off the walls making it almost impossible to find, especially because it was intermittent and random. Of course it was the race car, which had another toy splayed over the top of it, triggering the bell to ring at odd intervals.

"Irkle finkle butt," Jackson said again.

Beth and I gave up our sleep charade as Jackson jumped up in bed with us and jockeyed with Emmett for a space between us. Jackson propped himself on a pillow and put the racecar on his lap, then pressed a button. The batteries were nearly dead. A recording of a man's voice struggled to be heard, and what resulted was probably every other syllable, as if over a phone connection that cut in and out, "...irkle ...finkle ...butt--"

Jackson had reproduced the sounds perfectly. We replayed it over and over again and laughed at each others immitation, the best of which was mommy's. Now we are saying it all the time. I have a feeling a new phrase has entered into the family lexicon.

I'll have this to refer back to when someone asks me what it means. It's one of those you-had-to-be-theres.

Mommy Don't Play That

Jackson picked up a stack of books at the library on a variety of animal subjects: Horses, lizards, birds, cats, dogs--and rodents. Specifically mice, hamsters, rats and gerbils. My name should have been Noah, because I have owned two of every kind of animal when I was a kid. Dad didn't care. Jackson's mommy, my darling wife, is stripe of a different color--and Jackson knows it. When I read him bedtime stories, he picks from the horse stack; but when it's mommy's turn, out comes the rodent book.

Mommy comes downstairs at five of eight and I hand her a steaming cup of fresh coffee. The boys and I are sitting at the kitchen table. Jackson has eight plastic lizards in formation around his cereal bowl, and Emmett is shoving a spoonful of yogurt the size of his fist into his mouth.

"Daddy," Jackson is talking to me, but the message is for mommy, "did you know that hamsters don't like to be woke up."

She looks at me with a knowing, 'here we go' look, "Yeah, they're very crabby and bite their owners all the time. The book says they like to hide, so if they get out of the cage you won't find them."

Jackson is encouraged, "But mouses don't mind at all. They like it. And they have good balance; they can walk across a whole stick without falling. But they aren't smart, not like rats."

"A rat is the most intelligent of all rodents," she adds, "but it smells." She squinches her face as if a smoking rat carcass were on the table.

"Not the female mommy," Jackson corrects her.

"True," she admits.

"So," I said, "then Jackson can get a rat for a pet?"

"Yeah! Can I mommy, pleeeeeease?"

My wife uses the force now, and my throat is starting to constrict.

"That is not funny honey," she warns, "do NOT encourage this."

Can't... breath... must... get... oxygen...

What's So Good About It

It is by far easier to bitch about changing diapers and sleepless nights than to describe the intangible riches of parenthood. But for the sake of those who were persuaded to sterilize themselves after my last post, it is my duty to try. We're all selfish by nature, and expect a return on every investment we make. So why would anybody willingly subject themselves to such a lopsided agreement?

Sometimes we're not so willing, eh? But I digress.

We all know that someday we are going die. Having children is an instinct embedded into our base operating system, put there by the programmer to insure that we will forego the obvious disadvantages of child rearing. If we resist our true nature, we pay a price and act out in a variety of ways; but having children satisfies that primal urge.

For some reason, humans give birth to helpless blobs, while the rest of the animal kingdom has children that can move and play, that have some sense of their surroundings and can interact with others. Our children are born helpless, defenseless and blank, like little computers without any pre-installed software; as parents, we stare into their eyes, portals to their persistent storage, and imprint ourselves with our words and actions. In other words, we give them a part of us, such that how we feel about ourselves is how we feel about our children.

And that really is the key, and the reason that some people should wait.

The first smile, a pale reflection of a nitrous intake, pure euphoria. My son Jackson was probably six months old, lying in the valley between my legs as I lay with my head propped on my pillow and my knees drawn up so that our noses could almost touch. I clapped his two little hands and cheered, "Yay!" And he laughed! A magical combination of sounds that made my heart flutter and pound in my chest. I did it again and he laughed again, and I yelled for my wife to come see. It sounds silly, but that's what being a parent is all about, exhibiting behavior that would have gotten your ass kicked in high school, and not caring a wit.

The first word. For all you guys out there, this one's for you: Dada. It's always Dada; and herein lies that little gray area, that place where life proves once again that it just isn't fair. As fathers, let's face it, we get the easier of the two jobs. Need I explain it? If life had any sense of justice, Mama would get top billing, but that is not the way of it. Disclaimer aside, there is no greater joy than that first glorious, decipherable word, which quite possibly is the moment where most fathers discover an interest, kick up their game and become most involved.

When I come home from being gone for even part of a day, my children scream "Daddy!" and smother me with hugs and kisses, like Dino in the old Flintstones cartoon. As parents we're needed, and for many, this could very well be a first time experience. Children are their own reward, on one hand more work than we have ever done, but on the other an expression of the truest form of love on earth. We experience for the first time an urge to protect another at the expense of our own safety.

My oldest boy is only five, and my youngest two. Our time together has only begun. They're not old enough to have wrecked my car, but I look forward to the day when they ask for the keys.

Yeah Baby!

When a couple is having their first baby, I love to ask them about their expectations, to get a feel for just how out of touch with reality they are. It's a sadistic pleasure of mine you see, because up until the very moment that the first labor pain strikes like a red hot, electric cattle prod dipped in sulfuric acid, the blissful couple still believes they can catch a movie the next day.

A baby, that little bundle of joy, hardly bigger than the span from your wrist to your elbow, is more devastating than a twenty megaton atomic bomb, a road runner to your coyote, spy vs. your spy, like McCauley Caulken home alone. Everything you knew has been stripped away like leg hair on a wax strip. Your friends become your old friends, replaced with other wild eyed, fledgling parents, who like yourselves, have swam too far under water to get back to the surface.

Sleep? We don't need no stinking sleep!

The laundry piles up, the house looks like a warzone. Unless you are one of the lucky ones, the baby cries for a variety of reasons: dirty diaper, gas at either end, hungry, tired, uncomfortable, wants to be held, wants to be put down, scared. The list goes on, but the worst part is, you never really know for sure. So you go through your list of remedies. For gas I patented the bicycle leg pump, which works like a charm every time. No two babies are the same, and what one finds soothing sends the other into a tiny tantrum. We've tried swings, rockers, placing the car seat on a running clothes dryer, running the blow dryer in the room for white noise, CDs of lullabyes, bird calls, and waterfalls, singing, cooing, talking silly, making stupid faces, tripping on imaginary banana peels. You name it, we've tried it. When the baby finally falls asleep, mommy and daddy collapse like discarded marionettes wherever we happen to be standing.

Sex? No unless you are both insomniacs.

My friends Vicky and Richard were our next door neighbors in San Francisco, and were one of the first to disappear once we became no fun. They invited us to a party once, but our youngest son, who was only around sixteen months at the time, nearly fell from a drop off in their back yard which could have killed him, so we had to leave to avoid the danger. That was the last we heard from them until Vicky got pregnant.

By this time my wife and I had moved out of the city and into our first house, and Richard and Vicky had moved into a house only ten miles away. Vicky and I commuted into the city together on the Ferry from Vallejo.

"So, are you ready to have this baby Vick?" I asked her.

"Oh sure, no problem," she said with swagger. "I have a dog, so I feel like I'm ready."

"Oh really," I laughed, "You think raising a dog is the same thing, huh?"

"Well, it will be a little different. But come on! Have you ever had a dog?"

"Several."

"Well, Charlie cries to get out, and you can't leave him alone. He always is begging for attention and we have to walk him. He's a huge pain in the ass."

"Ok, whatever you say Vick. But do me a favor and bookmark this conversation in your head, because we will revisit."

She gave birth to little Elias, affectionately known as Eli, a beautiful little boy that was a perfect blend of his parents. He had a devilish personality, and his parents let him do almost anything he wanted to do. For instance, they let him draw with markers on the floor, thinking that it would give a cute modern art feel. But as he grew up, his liberal upbringing made him hard to control. Vicky became exasperated and turned to my wife Beth for advice, and the two became great friends, as both were parents of wild boys. And nobody on the planet knows what that means until they've experienced it first hand.

Vicky had an epiphany one day and told Beth, "You know, I am so impressed with you for raising your son with no help at all. You didn't have any family around to help you, or any," she paused with an abashed expression, "friends. I wasn't there for you and I'm sorry."

After Vicky had a reign on motherhood, and her son and mine were playing together nicely, I finally reminded her of our little conversation.

"Eli has been a lot of work, huh?"

"He drives me crazy sometimes," she said affectionately, looking at the two boys with a dreamy far off look.

"No nearly as difficult, say, as raising a dog?"

Her laugh burst out, as if escaping. "Ok, you got me on that one."