No Regrets

 

Sometimes, in the Groundhog Day repetition that is parenting with a toddler, when we do the same things over and over again and one day blurs into the next, middle age comes creeping into my thoughts and I start to wish I’d done more with my past. Be it travel, or work, or wishing I had a do-over for all the dumb mistakes of my youth, I don’t have many regrets but every now and then I find myself wondering what I could have done differently. 

But those thoughts are fleeting, and as it is, I find my happiest moments are in or around my little house on my little patch of land in my little town.

The other day I was in my backyard with Bella, my two year-old daughter. We’re playing in the pallet house and she wants to do my hair. Only there are rules in place and so I have to crawl out of the house and then return so that I can knock before coming in and make a proper entrance. 

Oh, uh, right. 

I do as I'm told. This time I knock and she welcomes me inside. There’s a toy sink with actual running water wedged into a corner. I’m instructed to sit against the wall. A siren wails in the distance, somewhere outside these magical walls, as she sets her hands in the water—probably filled with mosquito larvae and who knows what else—cupping them as she carries the water to my head and splashes my hair with it.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs, wiping down the sides of my face.

“Thank you,” I say, water dripping onto my shirt, kind of looking around. She does this again, maybe four or five more times. Then uses a toy set of pliers to cut my hair. She's fully focused on her task and takes time and care to do the job right. 

“Does it really look good?” I ask, as she drops the pliers and starts to clean up. 

Bella looks up from the sink and regards me with big blue eyes. A small nod. “Definitely.”

And that’s it. I don’t need to go anywhere. I’m good here, hunched over in this make believe bug infested pallet shed hair salon, with this sweet little stylist who hands our compliments like candy.

 

If Monkeys Could Talk

*The following story is fiction. Mostly fiction...

My kid has this stuffed monkey. He sleeps with it every night. He found him at Walmart, my wife was shopping with him one day and took a wrong turn down the toy aisle. That’s a bad move, the toy aisle. Rookie mistake.

Our son threw a whopper of a fit over this monkey and Mom broke down. I didn’t see much special about him—the monkey, my kid is plenty special—he has a pull tail that plays a nursey rhyme I recognize but can’t name.

My son and this monkey. He takes it everywhere. Bathroom. Daycare. To the store. This monkey travels. The other night it had snowed, and the next day the sun warmed things up so that the streets shined black with salt and chemicals. My son was hopping over a curb when, splat, he dropped he monkey face down in a tar black puddle of grime. The kid was devastated. Crying about Patrick the monkey as I cleaned him up some with a Clorox wipe and fix him. But the wipes only managed to smear his face and belly and the more I wiped the more he smeared until he looked like a coal miner with a beard.

That was the worst. My wife was working late and it was just me and the kid and Patrick—my kid named the monkey Patrick—and I got this situation under control and stepped out into the living room. I was whipped from the trauma of parenting, and I was about to crack a well-deserved beer and turn on the game when I felt a draft. 

That’s when I saw it.

Patrick’s tail. The window as shut but I knew that tail anywhere. I leaped up and snatched the monkey, knowing I’d just seen him in bed before lights out.

He was cold in my hand. I looked to the hallway, then back to the monkey. Something swatted my hand away. “What the hell you think you’re doing?”

I’m pretty sure I screamed. Okay so I screamed, but Patrick was talking, with an Irish accent no less.

“Hey,” he whistled. “You don’t want to get involved. Let me go, okay?”

I rubbed my eyes and he was still there. “Let you go, where?”

“Anywhere,” he said, wiping at his cheek. Maybe it was remnants of today’s mishap, but he was trembling, terrified. This monkey had been to hell and back. “This gig, it’s too much. I need to bail.”

“Bail?”

“You gonna sit here and repeat everything I say?”

“No, I just…”

“I can’t do it. Look at me. I used to have fur, this coat with a sheen to it. I played a lullaby and my smile drove the girls crazy. I was the only male monkey on the shelf. Then that lunatic son of yours comes along.” 

“He’s hardly a luna—”

“Look at me!”

I did. I saw his matted fur and deranged eyes. His tail hanging to the floor like an old rope. Today’s chemical bath hadn’t done him any favors, and that smile he spoke of was torn clean off at the edges.

“You see now?”

“Well,” I shrugged.

“Pull my tail.”

The sounds warbled out of a box that was visible through his threadbare skin and lost stuffing. The song was drunk, but the monkey thirsty.

“Now go pour that drink.”

I started to get up. “Beer?”

“Bourbon.”

We set up at the table. Patrick drank bourbon like a champ. He wiped his face and began the story of how he was assembled in Mexico by a woman with strong hands and few teeth. How he came across the border on a box truck with a bobble doll named Sheila. “Sheila,” he said, his faded eyes mustering a glow. “She was something, kid. Really something.”

“Mexico?”

“Born and raised, Chico,” he said, knocking back another shot.

“But the name, the accent, the,,,"

“Drinking? Is that what you want to say? Try soaking up a few pounds of drool, get dropped in the toilet, see what it does for your sobriety, okay?”

“Okay, Patrick.”

“Okay, he mimicked. “And the dogs. Jesus, that pooch took my ear off.”

“We sewed it back on, Patrick.”

He set out his glass. I filled it to the top.

---

We talked it out. Patrick and I are all right these days. I look out for the guy. Bought a cute female monkey for my son. We look our for each other. Patrick tells me all the silly things my son said or did. And every now and then when the house is quiet we share a drink at the table.

Bedtime Stories

Like most households, we read books before bed. But lately the books aren't holding my son's full attention, so we’ve started making up our own stories. It all comes to life in the dark, and with his input, we've come up with some rather epic adventures all on our own.

We have Tooter Reuter, Tommy Two-Milks, Sally Simpson and Phillip Fatterwackle. And who can forget, the lovable lush, Johnny Junkfood.

Whatever the names, this is the cast of our ongoing saga. And what could be a better way to expand and explore what's in his little head? 

To say he's into it is an understatement. When the lights go out, my son snuggles up, his eyes wide and unblinking, staring at the ceiling. "Tell that one again!" He often pats me on the arm when he likes what he hears, saying, “More. Tell me more.”

He remembers every story we've made up, correcting me if I flub a line. He knows every detail. How Tommy Two-Milks got caught sneaking a milk up his shirt in class. How Tooter Reuter ate nothing but pizza for a month. How they went fishing and hooked a legendary fish called Pearly Purple, who snapped the line and made a narrow escape. Imagination, a good thing, right?

Well, about that. I must have glossed over the rules, the part about these stories being tales, not to be tried in real life. And the tales weren't just bedtime stories anymore. I was telling them at breakfast, while getting dressed, at dinnertime. And somewhere, along the way, I got sloppy. 

It started when with the tree climbing. He wanted to go up, way up high. "Like Tooter Reuter, Daddy." Then on the way to school, I fumbled through a hurried tale of how Tooter Reuter and Johnny Junkfood played a gag, putting rocks into Tommy’s book bag. Are you rolling your eyes? My wife is, because that was the day my son put rocks in a classmates boot.

Oops.

Storytelling gone wrong. Who knew? My wife knew, she explained, but I must have not heard the warnings over the clank of sword fighting and all the laughter. But she was right, it had gone too far. So I explained to our son that these stories are fiction and not to be acted out. That when Tooter climbs the tallest tree to the top, then uses his blanket as a parachute to float back down, it's make believe. I edited all the fun offending chapters. Now, I run each word through a mental filter, taking pains to find some kind of moral to each tale that enters my head. 

But I can't help feeling censored. My wife over there coughing when I skirt around her code of standards. I explain how any good story needs conflict. Oh, I found me some conflict.

So finally, amidst the criticism, like any prima donna Hollywood actress, I walked. I relinquished storytelling duty to my wife. Yawn. I’ll summarize.

Sally Simpson is perfect. She uses her manners and the teacher loves her. She gets to do all the fun chores in class because she’s nice and polite. All the boys need to follow suit.

There was probably more but my son and I dozed off. But hey, at least it puts him to sleep...

Alone Time

Coming up on three-and-a-half-years old, my son is growing increasingly independent. I've noticed how he talks things out, solves problems on his own. Or maybe it's as simple as lying on his back in his play room after school, taking some time to decompress. 

I think it's a good thing, taking some time to get himself together. But a little time goes a long way, and this past Sunday, I found out the hard way not to let things get too quiet.

Sunday. Our neighbor stopped over with her ten-year-old daughter, as they do most Sundays for dinner and fun. Fun because whenever they enter the house, I become invisible. No big deal, it's just how it is. And this day was no different. 

Things started off with a bang as Simon and his future babysitter scampered off, into the living room to play hotel, which means stripping the beds of all covers and pillows and setting them up in the living room. This girl is great with my son. So much so that I’d gotten a bit lax with the supervision. I joined my wife and neighbor in the kitchen on the way out to fire up the grill.

Back inside, the kids have moved to the table to draw. So I hang in the kitchen and we talk about what conditioner works best with our hair where it occurred to me that I don’t really hang out with many guy friends these days. Oh, and that things were awfully quiet in the other room.

I drifted back and poked my head in.

Oh, finger painting. Cool. I’ve learned to stay away when it comes to activities with friends. That or get shooed away.

So back to chit-chat. The ladies were talking about those cute little pictures our kids painted last year. We all smiled, our hearts aflutter as the room filled with parental joy over our kids' special bond. And it's with this sentiment that I casually peeked back at the two of them again.

Oh My God.

My kid turned to face me. He was completely red. Gulp, that’s paint, right? He was covered. Across his neck, his arms, his hair. A thick film of paint on the table. I could only watch as he inspected the slimy paint on his palms. And started clapping. 

Paint went flying.

“Uh, honey, we need a wipe.” 

We didn't need a wipe. We needed a hose. Quite possibly an exorcist. At that point I didn't even know where to begin but I started by searching the floor for pig carcass. My son stood proudly on his chair, a picture of a Stephen King novel amidst the red paint spatter that was all over the curtains, the wall, the dogs.

I looked to the preordained sitter. A few smudges of red on her shirt. A smear on her arms. She was putting the finishing touches on a rainbow or meadow or it’s not important. My eyes widened.

“What happened?”

“Oh. He wanted a lot of paint.”

Enter my wife. Thankfully she is better than me at taking charge because I’d just been standing in the doorway, mouth hanging open in shock, unsure where to begin. She took charge by removing his shirt off for starters, but then things got difficult. Because he’s three and all.

Simon hopped off the chair and bolted for the living room, waving his dripping hands above his head, southern baptist church choir-style. He was pretty much covered, from hair to toenails in red paint, shedding it on the walls as he swung around the corner and down the hall out to the sun room as he busted free and clear to the carport, chanting what I'm pretty sure was a Mayan death ritual song. 

I gave chase, following the paint trail after my kid who was now streaking across the lawn. Part of me was wondering how I’d explain this to authorities, because it sort of looked like some sort of voodoo massacre had transpired.

I scooped him up. He kicked and squirmed and I was awfully thankful that all I wear are $6 shirts these days when he wiped his face on my chest in his flailing, worked up something good between the warpaint and my reaction.

Back in the kitchen. Screaming. Cleaning. Mopping. Wiping. Forensics. Laundry. 

I wrestled this kid into the tub. No easy task considering he was in full-on Apocalypse Now mode. 

Mom to the rescue. She talked him down.Talked me down. She convinced him that it was time for a shower. To get a rinse. Pink water swirling in the tub.

I stepped out into the hall wet and streaked and like a man who'd gone 15 rounds in a parental grudge match. The neighbors helped with the cleaning. The chicken needed to be flipped on the grill so I staggered out to handle that.

Maybe my kid’s not quite ready for all this alone time.

Home Is Where the Boss Is

So my kid is into giving orders. Dictation. Demands. He’s got it down pat, complete with the tone and cadence of a well-seasoned mob boss.

Now, being that he is the kid and I am the adult parent, this doesn’t always go over so well. But at the same time I’m trying not to raise my voice at him. You know, tell him not to be so mean and angry by being mean and angry. But that leads to another problem.

My three-year-old is not all that rational. Like me. I’m as rational as they come. So at least he has a role model to follow.

His gripes are the common ones. The Food. Bedtime. Baths. Ugh. While he used to love the tub and his toys, lately he’s been protesting baths like a college student with a cause. We haven’t been forcing him to bathe every night as we once did, as a skip night won’t hurt him. But the other day he was covered in ketchup. Sand. Mud. Some grease from the car. Magic Marker.

Seriously. It was time to get clean. Come hell or, uh, bathwater he was getting in that tub. Suddenly it seemed all of those skip nights had turned against us. The kid is a shrewd bargainer, able to dial up and recall anything we've said along the way throw it in our faces with the moxie of a good defense attorney. And if facts don't sway the jury he turns on the charm, tugging at the heartstrings with sad eyes, asking to snuggle and read books. 

Meanwhile he’s just buying time.

But sometimes, after a few too many skip nights, there's no avoiding a good scrub down. So after an epic flip out, we got him in the tub.  A half hour later he was still in the tub, now demanding to stay in, flipping out all over again because he thought his Band-Aid was going to come off. These are the moments you just let him go. Don't talk, don't reason. Let him go. My wife just gave me a kiss. Eventually it passed.

His teachers at school tell me that he’s a great kid. He follows the rules. He shares. He uses his manners and is an all around delight to be around. Then he gets home and sheds the halo. With a grunt he spits, grows horns, then grabs his pitchfork and goes to work.

At home he is a hairline trigger away from a meltdown. I’m not sure what it is, maybe all of that delightfulness day in and day out at school just wears one down. I know part of this is his age. He’s three, and he needs to test boundaries, explore his options. Push the limits. Find his inner tyrant.

Let’s say I don’t open the yogurt just right. And by just right I mean peeling it just short of coming off, but not off. DEAR GOD DO NOT TEAR THE LID COME COMPLETELY OFF! Doing so will initiate a stage four meltdown that may result in a fork toss and timeout. Same goes for putting on the shoes too tight.

Timeouts. Yeah, what a joke. Last week we stuck him in his room after one of those stage fours and things got quiet. My wife and I actually had a conversation. A whole one. It was weird.

So after maybe five or seven minutes, max, we went to talk to Chuck Chillout and see if he was ready to rejoin the human race. What we found instead was a potpourri of colorful fish food all over his floor. On his bear. On the pillows slung across the room. I had to laugh. Because he looked surprised. His mouth-opened and his eyes wide, I could tell he was thinking “Holy S#*! I did not know that would happen!"

I often find myself laughing. Because it’s ridiculous, this kid’s struggles. And the above examples are only the few and in between moments. Maybe I should write more about all of the spectacular little moments that make up our lives. How he surprises me every single day with a clever observation or word. How shakes or nods his head when he speaks to emphasize a point. How I love him so much that I could burst. 

The truth is I’m blessed to have a healthy son and wouldn’t change him for the world. I can handle the yogurt. The tears. The socks and shoes and the meltdowns. Because if my house was quiet or clean, so help me God I would be lost.

Sports...Meh

On Saturday, we took our three year old to a college basketball game. The thinking was that between the festive crowd, the loud noises, those cool flame throwers that ignite when somebody hits a three point shot, well, there’d be something for him to find, right?

Right. He loved walking up to the arena. Pointing to the cranes stretched high in the sky, perking up at the sound of heavy construction underway. Something's being built today, he looked to be thinking, his nose in the air and a squint in his eyes. I can smell it.

Technically this wasn’t his first basketball game. There was the Diaper Derby back in his younger months, but that was what, two years ago? Ancient history.

Now, buying tickets, I watched him bouncing around, ready for tip off. I remember going to the games as a kid, how the thrill of getting close to the action would had me hopping around like a Cameron Crazy.

Yeah, that’s not what was happening here. I think the kid just had to pee or something. As soon as I got our tickets and we walked into that dark arena and  it was like a balloon deflated. Some guy handed him one of those foam #1 hand thingies. He gave it a shrug and handed it over to me, his eyes lingering back on the sunny day as we went to find our seats.

The day wasn't a bust. There were some things he liked. He enjoyed the popcorn. He really liked the steps leading down to the court. He watched maybe a possession or two of basketball. Then the going got....difficult.

Here’s the deal. I don’t mind if my kid doesn’t like sports. To be honest, getting older and becoming a dad, I don’t have the same overzealous enthusiasm of my younger years. Besides, he’s three. He has plenty of time to change his mind, if he chooses.

My kid is much more interested in what makes something work or how it was built than watching some guys put a ball in a basket. Oh my God. That sounded just like my wife.

And this from a guy whose weekends used to be marathons of football or basketball games. Playoff time meant that I was not taking calls. What? You broke your leg? Okay, commercial break is over. I’m going to have to call you back.

From the time I could walk I loved going to the gym. The band playing, the pulse of the crowd, the lights and atmosphere. My son today? Wow, look at these fold up seats. You put them down and they swing right back up again. Amazing. I just gotta take a look-see how they do that!

We made it to halftime. And only because the place wasn’t quite half full and there was plenty of roaming room. We did some laps around the gym, checking out those straw dispensers and shouting Naughty! at every, single, napkin or bottle cap on the floor.

On our way out, climbing up from the court, the announcer was going wild. Someone hit a three. I didn’t even turn back, I had a grubby little hand in my own, a wife and kid who wanted to get outside and into the sunshine. And maybe they were on to something. Coming out of the dark gym, it was bright and had warmed up nicely. I took a big breath of fresh air, then my son saw a golf cart and that  became a thing.

We’ll try again at four, or five, or whenever he actually asks to go to a game. But I won’t hold my breath. This is a kid who’d rather cut the grass on the football field than watch the big guys collide, (again, sounding like my wife right there, ugh). But I have a feeling that my son just isn’t a big sports fan. He’d rather go to a Consumer Reports field testing facility.

Do they offer season tickets?

Tale of Two KIds

We’re along the path in the woods. The creek is high, moving fast with with snow melt and mud. My son’s pace however, is glacial. He takes a step, finds a stick, then WACK! swats off the brittle brown seed heads along the way. For a while I only watch. The tassels of his knit hat swing with each chop. His face, pink cheeks and red nose, is scrunched up in hushed determination. With the hat, the green hooded sweat shirt and puddle boots, he’s a picture of unbridled youth. And for those few moments I’m filled with that enormous, purely unselfish joy that comes with watching my child do the simplest things.

What a wonderful moment I think, placing a hand to my heart, letting the fuzzy little scene etch its place into my memory.

One hour later...

A shitstorm. My kid wants chocolate and has no desire to earn it. The way he sees it he was born therefore it is his birthright. Now. No, now! He assumes the position. Flopping to the floor, his flailing is impeccable. His face, only moments ago a delicate arrangement of unblemished pale chub, is now barnhouse red, bunched up so tight that the tears have nowhere to go and pool in his tightly shut eyes. I try to help and he swats at me. When he receives the desired affect (my anger), he swats again. I walk away, into the other room, where I used to watch movies, sports, or nothing at all, because that’s what I’m supposed to do. 

I've read up on this. I know to ignore it. Don't give in. Don't give him a reaction. 

But a little voice says, Wait, isn't walking away a reaction? 

Well-Read Voice: No. Do not show weakness. Don't second guess it. He'll see it and pounce! 

Little Voice: Nonsense, he's a child. And where did you pick up that accent?

In my three years as a parent, I’m getting better. But it’s not about me. It’s about him.

He’s a good kid, really. He’s got some manners installed and we’re just turning the corner on that pesky potty training. Of course there’s going to be some miscues. Some fits. If there weren’t, well, I’d wonder whether he really is my child.

The main thing I’ve learned is patience. Like that walk in the woods the other day, we don’t just hop skip and jump from one place to another. Because when you’re only say, 1,100 days old, everything is still rather fresh. A stick can be a wondrous instrument. A soldering iron, a sword, a screwdriver, a pen or a fork. It can wack and prod, swing and draw.

Some things I’m doing well, others not so much. I read parenting articles and cringe at all I’m doing wrong. Sometimes I give in. I just throw in the towel and hand him that chocolate to avoid the whole kitchen floor thing. Then I worry that I’m creating a jerk. A trophy-getter. A brat. Like the other day I came home from lunch and my wife had told him no to a cookie. And what did I do but just walk in and unknowingly erase her hard fought battle. Although I gotta give him credit, the little bugger saw an opportunity (or a sucker) and went for it.

But mostly I’m doing things right. I guess. Who knows really? I know that much because he tells me how much fun we have when we’re together. He tells me that he loves his family. He gives me kisses when I get a boo-boo. So that’s something, right?

And besides, so what if we don’t do what everyone else is doing?

My kid eats fruit. He eats vegetables. Most of the time. He loves milk and water and I can proudly say he’s never had a Happy Meal in his life, (although he has developed that taste for chocolate). So what if he doesn’t like meat. Some people find that strange. I find it, well, fine.

He sleeps in his own bed. With Mom. Or me. Or both. That’s just where we are right now. People think that is strange. I’m okay with strange.

My point is that we do what works for us. And so should any parent. Sure, routines are good and temper-tantrums are normal. Other than that, be patient, stock up on chocolate, read lots of books to your kid, and let them be creative. 

That's all I've got. Oh, and if you should start thinking to yourself in an accent, well, at least you'll be entertained.

Potty Training.

What comes in, must come out. Somewhere. In a diaper. A potty. One time down his leg onto the floor. 

http://sabbyinsuburbia.blogspot.com/2010/03/adventures-in-potty-training-part-1.html

Oh that's gross? Sorry, it's just that once a naked three-year-old does a cartwheel right in your face, well, you just kind of get past all that. 

But the potty training, how's it going you didn't ask? Well, some days it’s a breeze, he tears off his pants and heads for his little froggy toilet in the bathroom just a ringing and singing. Other days, such as this morning, the mere mention of it sets off a horror movie scream that has the dogs taking cover.

But mostly he gets it right. And he’s awfully proud of himself. Like last night. He was on his little potty, giving Mom and me a play-by-play of what was happening. How he wasn’t quite done, in case we were wondering. Then it was back to singing Christmas carols while on his potty. 

Such are the times.

But it will be nice not having to buy diapers. Or change them. Or even look at them after three years of handling full ones. And I think he's ready to be done with them too, be a big boy, where some Underoos. 

And being that we're not completely in the clear I have to keep an eye on his expression. I can face read him like a champ. The narrowing eyes, the furrowing brow, means that a storm's abrewing and we'd better get him where he needs to go. Some jumping up and down, a slight smile, well, that means the dude needs to pee.

When he does his business in the potty you'd think he'd won the slots. A parade ensues. He gets high-fives, we cheer him down the hall to the kitchen where he receives a bit of candy to grease his palms. And he's ready to tell anyone about it.The other night we went to dinner with friends, their 8 and 5 year-old girls were at the end of the table. My son hops out of his seat, struts back to them with a gleam in his eye and says, “I’m potty trained.”

It just may be the best come-on line in history.

And things aren't always a breeze, not with such a stubborn strong-willed kid. But every kid is different, and will take to doing things at different ages. For my kid this was all about comfort. For a time his reason for not pooping at school was that the toilet is too loud. Not sure if that was truth or just a well thought out excuse but it was fine with me. He's going now so all is well.

Man, when did I get here, writing about poop? Maybe after my last  shred of dignity was bundled up and tossed into a diaper genie. Or perhaps before, when I was fumbling sloshing bottles of breast milk in the fog of night. Either way, this is just one more notch in the belt of parenthood. Next up, hang on, uh, there’s poop on the floor….

Street Scene

The other day my son and I were walking out of the house for our afternoon tractor ride. Tractor as in our neighbors at the end of the street have a pedal tractor, which means I get to be the engine when it comes to hills and tough terrain around the woods behind our house. It’s like CrossFit, only with nonstop observations.

Look, a stick.

Remember when we saw a deer?

Whose rock is that?

So we were still in the driveway, when down the street I heard some arguing. Loud, explicit arguing in front of one of the houses between us and the tractor. A young lady girl was yelling in the street for all to hear, F--- this and F--- that and so on.

I held my son back. “Hang on, bud, let’s wait,” I said, not wanting to walk past the string of profanities littering the street but also not wanting to make a big deal out of the shouting.

This was a week before his third birthday, and it’s getting increasingly more and more difficult to pull one over on this kid. He makes connections. He reads my thoughts. He's sneaky good at making deals. Without a hitch, he motioned to the girl, spewing her classy f-bombs into another car—something about another girl, or shorty as she put it. When he spoke his voice matched the innocence in those eyes of his.

“She’s not happy?”

I shook my head. “No, she’s not happy. Here, let’s go inside for a minute.”

“No," he said, pulling back from me and still eyeing the scene. "I don’t want to."

Now, there were a few different way to go about this. I could have marched right down there and told them to keep it down. We could have ignored them, although that would have been tough, because as my son so diligently pointed out, the girl was not happy. Hell, I could have called the cops I suppose. But it didn’t look like a violent situation. Just loud. So instead, knowing my kid wasn’t about to go inside without a fight—not after being promised a tractor ride—I motioned across the street, to go sit on our across the street neighbor’s riding mower until the smoke cleared.  *Most of our neighbors are great. I guess every street has that one house...

So we started across the street and my kid looks down, then up to me, his hand still in mine.

“She’s not happy,” he repeated, still very much intrigued by the Jerry Springer scene playing out down the street.

I've noticed how certain things stick with him. When they do they are weaved into a story at the most random moments. Like when his Uncle Jeff plucked his own teeth out with my kid's new toy pliers, that memory is sticking around for a while.

We hung out on the riding mower for a bit, making engine noises while the arguing died down. When it cleared out, we started down the street, I couldn’t help feel for the little boy being carried into the house. Because certain things probably stick with him too.

At the end of the street my son climbed up on the tractor and got his feet set on the pedals, the satisfaction beaming on his face. Only a few months ago he couldn’t reach the pedals and now it's ride em cowboy. But first he looked up to me, squinting some in the bright winter sky.

“Dad, you make me happy. And I make Daddy happy too.”

And that will stick with me...

Thoughts on Family Travel...

Holiday travel. Every year I say never again. Yet every year I find my hands on the wheel. Sure, getting away is fun. Seeing family is great.  But the getting there, that is tough sledding.

It starts with a three year old. Not easy, right? Add two dogs, one on each side of the little guy and now we’re getting close. Okay stuff the car to the gills and then pretend that you abhor being confined to a seat for more than a half hour or so. 

Now we’re cooking.

I'm sure that some of you out there drive all the time, and you may like nothing more than hitting the open road at full speed. Well, God bless you for it. Me? No, not my thing. I-81, with its steep inclines and trucks and constant road construction? I’d rather chew on a rusty wad of steel wool. 

My whole family was packed into that car. The only thing missing was a jar around my neck with our two little goldfish. One wrong move, me or the other guy and well...it’s more than my nerves can take. That’s why I chug along at a paltry 68-72 mph. I pass cops with a smile. The Fast and the Furious? I’m not what would be considered the ideal demographic.

Our journey began in Virginia and ended in the North Country, a mere 50 miles from the Canadian border. All in all it was something to the tune of 26 hours in that car with stops at the downtown Hilton in Scranton, Pa, both there and back. And By the way, those good people at the Hilton are top notch, and I highly recommend their hotel if you’re travelling with pets. Last time up  I chose a roadside motel to save a buck with the expected results.

But nope, this time we spent the extra money and got fancy. Two queen beds meant one for mother and child and one for man and dogs. It's funny because I used to leave a hotel room in a daze. A fog of cigarette smoke hanging and a string of beer cans strewn along the floor. Now it's Goldfish crumbs and baby wipes. 

Times change.

Dogs. Boy was that something. After the first time they flat out refused to get back in that elevator. A fool-me-once sort of deal. So then it was three flights of stairs whenever I had to let them out or in. Other than that they were well behaved. Even Mason, our neurotic husky mix did okay. A few pants and some trembling at times when traffic got hairy, but hey, the same went for me.

The kid. He did great too. Minimal napping and maximum discomfort, and yet he handled most of it like a champ. At one point, there was us, in the empty hotel lobby/bar, drinking a draft and trying to de-frazzle ourselves while our kid played with his tractor on the floor. Sure, there were those times on the road, when he’d yank at his car seat belt while shouting, “Get me out of here!” Then again, I did the same thing.

On the way home—which became the longest effing trip home since trips and homes and roadside mowing was invented—we hit a snag in traffic and came to a lurching halt on the interstate. My son, awake but weary, piped up from the back.

“We’re going home?”

“Yes son.”

“We’re going home really slow?”

“Yep.”

Home. There’s nothing better. Walking into that familiar place, with its smells and sounds and comforts. With its absence of traffic and lurking dangers. Where the dogs sleep without worry and snore through the night. Where the stress melts away. Where my kid isn’t tying a leash to the hotel chair or eating with a plastic spoon. Where there are no elevators or parking garages or check out times. Home. Where all is well.

Happy Holidays.

Are You Happy?

“Are you happy, Daddy?”

This is the newest question in our house. Whenever I tell my son not to do something, like, say not to throw his food. He’ll stop mid-throw, sort of tilt his head at me, and then,

“Are you happy, Daddy?”

“I am, bud. And well played by the way.”

Then, fifty percent of the time at least, bread takes flight.

But I am happy. Happy that he’s happy. Mostly, I mean there's always the occassional crushing blow for an almost three-year-old: Bedtimes, bath time, words that end with time and don't begin with play. Maybe when he can’t have a cookie, but overall, yes, he’s happy. So I’m happy.

His newest activity is riding a bike around the house. And by around I don’t mean literally, but more through the house. Down the hallway, into the kitchen, peddling away down the living room and making a hairpin turn back around again. And the imagination this kid has, the other day he fell, and got all sorts of upset because he dropped the imaginary cookies he was bringing to me.

Sometimes it can be hard to keep track of what's going on. I mean, it can be alligators roaming the living room, a lion down the hallway. The bike mysteriously “smokes” and has to be repaired. Oh, and anything can become a lawn mower.

The other day all of this was happening, nearly simultaneously, when I looked at my wife.

Can you believe this? We have a three year old.

Almost three at least, and man the house is jumping, with the alligators and all. My wife and I were thinking about calling an exterminator, but our son spotted us talking, like adults, and came to a skidding halt on the bike.

“Are you happy Mommy? Are you happy Daddy?”

“Yes son, we’re happy.”

The Boot Search

For the past two weeks there’s been nothing but the talk of boots in our house. Not just any boots. The little boots I left on the roof of the car after we got pictures done. The pictures that were taken at a farm off of a winding, unmarked road.

Before bed. “Daddy left my boots on the car.”

Upon waking up. “Daddy, I want my boots.”

Mom’s gotten in on the action too. “We should go look for them."

"I wouldn’t know where to start. Besides, they were $14.99 at Sam’s Club.

"But they aren’t in stock now, and all the other boots are expensive."

My wife knows how I work. And she knows that the mere mention of expensive—set to the backdrop of my son’s pouting was enough to do the trick. So Saturday, he and I loaded up in the car and went on a frivolous boot search.

He was still in his pajamas. Although he was wearing his rain boots. Lucky for me I hadn’t left those up on the roof or there would have been hell to pay. Honestly, I was only going to search so that I could say that we’d searched. It was drizzling and wet. A gray morning that was better suited for sleeping in. Yet I was going to comb the side of the country road for boots.

Like I was saying, the farm is about 20 miles away. Tall grass and fencing on either side. Cows. Horse poop. Did I mention it was raining? Okay, good.

We pulled into the driveway. I handed my son a baggie of oldish to occupy him while I roamed the side of the road. He was still buckled in his car seat and content to nibble while did things you just have to do when you're a dad.

Sprite bottles. Fast food. Wrappers, beer cans. I glanced back to the car, safely tucked away at the entrance to the farm. 

A few more steps. About to give up when, a boot! Sticking out of the tall grass. My eyes lit up. “No effing way.”

A car sped past. I turned to see our own car, getting small in the distance. Not good. I needed to hurry up and find the other boot. Energy drinks. Coffee cups. Man, people really like to litter. But there was no time for high horses or soap boxes....I needed the other shoe.

And then there it was. The other boot. I picked it up and turned around. Sprinted to the car, elated that I would be able to get to sleep guilt free tonight. I slowed down, tapped on the windo to to the car. My son’s face lit up like Christmas morning.

My boots!”

Then he went right back to the goldfish. 

Kind of a Jerk...

I love my kid just as any parent should. He’s a charming, good looking guy. He's got a great sense of humor, which uh, I mean, how could he not? Yep, he's a good kid, sometimes, even polite. All in all it seems we’ve done s something right with our little gentleman. 

But sometimes, behind closed doors. Beyond the world of Facebook and it’s perfect little pictures. The little snot can be kind of, uh…jerk.

I know I know, how awful of me to say. But hang on. Hear me out. He’s going on three, and I’m guessing this isn’t exactly ground breaking behavior. Pottery breaking yes, but I don’t think he’s the first toddler to get his diaper in a bunch because he’s up past his bedtime.

I'm just being honest, because the writing is on the wall. Literally, wiped on in a smear of milk as he takes his sippy cup and uses it like a magic marker. 

The guy can be a real jerk sometimes.

Just calling it what it is. Think about it. If I, now forty years old, came over to your house and demanded pretzels and like any good host you offer pretzels but didn’t adhere to my rigid, pretzel prep criteria: letting me stick my grubby little hand in the bag for two fistfuls of broken pretzel pieces. 

Unknowingly, you’ve thrown a kink into the Rain Man—like sequence. So I just flop down on the floor, kicking my legs and exalting my displeasure. Maybe take a swipe at your dog.

You probably wouldn’t invite me back over, huh?

But this is how he reacts. Sometimes. The other day he finished his yogurt and hurled the container at the dogs. Jerk Butt. He knows better, and I told him, in my dad voice—that he is not to throw yogurt containers/dishes/sporks/pumpkins from the table.

The next day, he finished his yogurt, wiped his mouth, and then presented the container to me.

“Here Daddy.”

“Great job, son.”

And that’s how it goes these days. One step forward, one flop and flail back.

Like this morning, when he woke up and reached out to me for a snuggle. He laid his frizzy head on my chest, his little pajama footie feet dangling. Great stuff right there, even if five minutes later, when Mom came around, he told me, "You go away, Daddy."

Jerk.

Oh, see those blocks all stacked up? Not on my watch.

Nice flowers, they look so pretty, crushed in my fist.

I see it took you fifteen minutes to piece together my train tracks. Derailment only takes seconds

Oatmeal? Motor boat time! 

Again, not that my kid is a complete jerk. Just sometimes. But we’re getting there. My wife says that it’s normal. I hope so. Because when he wants to the guy can be a complete charmer. People stop in the grocery store to tell us how well-mannered our child is. I look down, stifle a chuckle.

Yeah, he is.

Marathon Man

As any good distance runner would tell you, it’s all about the journey.

Or maybe they wouldn’t. I could’ve just plucked that out of thin air. But on the eve of The Virginia Ten Miler, which passes right by our street, my son was all set to run his own race.

The Amazing Mile is a kids race downtown. And the Amazing Quarter Mile is the grueling test of endurance that kicks it all off. When we signed our kid up a few months back, I knew I had to get serious about training. We built up his stamina, running laps around the house after bathtime under the pretense that it was an innocent game of chase.

But oh no my friend. It was all about the training. We slogged through the sessions, chasing the dogs, training on the hill in the woods behind our house, in the backyard. He took his race seriously, or once again, maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just likes to run because he’s two and all. Something like that.

The rains came hard on the big day. Not that our little runner cared. He had his eye on the prize, or at least on a bag of pretzels, it’s tough to say. He wasn’t going to let a little rain dampen his spirits. , rain or no rain, he was ready to rip and run.

There was a nice turnout. Kid’s hopping all over the place. Big kids. Four and five year olds all over the place, huffing and spitting. I pulled my little guy to the side. “You okay, Champ?”

He stomped in a puddle. I took that as yes.

After some group photos—the flash of the bulbs cracking like a storm. (Well, mostly phones and tablets, but you get my drift). I could see my guy was shaken up. This was his first race, so he wasn’t used to all the media types hanging around. I knew I was going to have to get him focused.

He has this little nervous tick where he licks his lips. And he was looking like a lizard out there. The crowd was a bit overwhelming for him. I realized our mistake. We’d been training in the wilderness. Just the two of us and the dogs. I hadn’t prepared him for such a hostile environment. The crowd was getting to him. As a trainer it was my job to get my horse back on track.

“Hey, let’s take a walk.”

We ducked the crowd, heading for the little mounds near the parking lot, on the grass. The familiarity of grass and mud seemed to soothe his jumpy nerves. He laughed and smiled and took the hills. 

Then we heard the National Anthem. Go time.

He was running with Mom, a tactic I hadn’t prepped for but we were winging it now. The whole night seemed to be full of surprises. So I went and found a spot to cheer.

The race got underway and I feared he was going to be trampled. Kids pushing and kicking their way to the front. A redhead blasted by at breakneck speed. But I wasn’t worried. The ones that come out flailing usually burn out the quickest. We had a whole quarter mile marathon to run here so let him tire out.

Through the bodies I saw them. My wife and little guy chugging along. He had a look of complete determination on his cute little face, and I knew my training had done him well. I waved to them. He stopped and waved back. Mom and son pushed on, trudging through the elements in a test of endurance.

A quarter mile is a battle of wills. You have to want it, and as I saw my team round the bend and head down the home stretch, I swelled with pride.

They made it. He didn’t win. It didn’t matter. It was fun. He enjoyed himself. I picked up my champion, wet with rain, sweat, tears…that is rain on his butt, right?