The Elf on the Shelf ... Still

We all know how it works. A few weeks before Christmas, a cute little elf shows up at the house. He sits on the shelf, lounges by the windowsill, keeping an eye on things. Then, at night, while everyone sleeps, he flies back to the North Pole, gives a full report to the big guy, then gets back to the house to assume a new position.  

We’ve had some elves for the past three years, only not the store-bought kind, some old guys who belonged to my father-in-law when he was a kid.It's fun, stashing them in different places, all the shenanigans and mischief as we build up to the big day. But then, later, after all the presents are opened, the elf heads home. 

And that's what happened, until...

This past Christmas, we were out shopping a few days after the holiday, spending some of that gift card goodness when Simon spotted an Elf on the Shelf near the counter. A um, name brand one, in the box, with the book. It was on sale, half off. So we figured, why not?

Let me tell you why not. 

This elf—the one my son named Triskit—was declared a pet elf. Wanna know a fun little secret about pet elves? They never go away. Nope, they stick around all jolly year 'round, just a bouncing through the house night after night. You never know where old Triskit might be hiding, so your kid has to leap out of bed everyday—and I mean e-v-e-r-y-d-a-y, at six thirty or seven, even on a Sunday and hunt him down.

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing cuter than watching him wander through the house in pajamas, donning his punkrock bedhead hair, searching for this elf. What's not cute, is remembering to get out of bed in the middle of the night to hide the little freeloader. Every. Single. Night. 

Old Triskit is living it up. He's got his own pajamas, a sleeping bag. I’ve even put in a little shelf in my kid’s closet. Believe me when I tell you Triskit has it good for an elf.

I’m not sure how long it will go on. Valentines Day? St. Patty's Day? Halloween? 

In all seriousness, it's not that bad. And I can tell he's not fully buying this elf business, I think he just like’s to pretend. Sometimes he’ll come out of the bathroom, eyes wide, arms out, and say, “Dad, look where Triskit is hiding.”

And I do. I want to know. Because even as I joke, it’s fine with me. One day my kid will grow out of all this stuff. Or maybe he won’t and things will be downright weird. 

I'll keep you posted. 

Cursive Words

I think we all want to protect our kids, to teach them right from wrong and hope our lessons stick. We lead by example. We monitor what they watch or how much they watch it. We hover and direct and guide and nourish. But there’s only so much we can do, right?

As a first grader, my kid is learning all sorts of new tricks. He’s reading on a high-level, doing his homework and even writing his own books. He’s hoping to have a book published on the same day mine is set to be published. That way we can celebrate together.

His behavior is … well, tricky. Mostly he’s fine. He throws the occasional fit and has the occasional bad day at school. Sometimes he'll ask me about a movie he’s hearing about on the playground. Apparently some of these first-graders are watching Chucky or It or at least pretending to have watched them. 

He’s also finding out all sorts of new “cursive words” as they’re called in our house. Words like jerk or suck or his favorite saying, Shut your piehole.

Yeah, I know. I shouldn’t let him go around talking like that. And I don't. I mean, it’s rude and disrespectful and he knows that. Yet, part of me goes all warm in the chest, thinking how well I'm doing. I mean, cursive words. How cute, right?  

Fast forward. He's in school. In class, sitting on the carpet as the kids are doing some sort of group activity. The teacher is well, teaching, while my son, by his own admission, isn’t exactly paying attention (say what you will about him but he is honest). 

From what he’s told me, here’s what happened:

My kid leaned over to his friend, a friend we’ll call Bryan. My kid said, “Hey, want to hear the naughtiest word in the world?”

Bryan nodded, because of course he did. I imagine his lips curling into a sly grin, eyes gleaming at the opportunity to add to his arsenal. My kid took a quick, not-so-discreet peek around, then unleashed his filth. 

“Shut your piehole.”

I imagine my kid was awfully proud of himself, having acquired such a filthy vernacular at such a young age. Yep, I expect he sat back, thinking, Taught you something there, didn’t I?

At least until Bryan, without missing a beat, deadpanned, “No it’s not, it’s mother f****er.”

Yeah. I know, right? I would've laughed if I wasn't watching my only kid’s innocence drift off into the sky like a runaway kite.

When he recounted this story to me, he must have seen my eyes bug out of my head. I tried to recover, but, I mean how?

Eventually we got things squared away. He knows the word but doesn't use it, (although he does tell me when he's thinking about "Bryan's word"). It's the nuclear option, something we don’t say in our house. We’re good, so I thought, until he approached me the other day, stumped while writing a scene, pondering his artistic liberties.  

He tapped the pen to his cheek. “Dad, I have some real naughty ghosts in this story. Can they use that word, the one Bryan—”

“No. Nope. No, not doing that.”

Hey, I could've told him to shut his piehole. 

Fraud

My son’s a bright kid. I’m not bragging, the little guy is just quick to pick up on things. We role play, we do comedy skits. Sometimes it’s easy for me to forget he’s not yet seven years old.  

We’re eating breakfast yesterday morning. Chocolate Cheerios for him, Chex Mix for me. We sit, slurping up our man-sized bowls, and I’m going through some mail left over on the table. One of them is a replacement credit card.

I see him watching me, and I try to sneak the card back into the envelope so that I can take care of it later. Still, nothing gets by this kid.

“Is that a credit card?"

Yep. Oh, side note. He has this little prank he plays where he opens the junk mail and fills out the forms (usually in crayon) then sends the prepaid envelopes back in the mailbox, flips up the flag. He finds this hilarious. Usually, either my wife or I intercept this secret return-to-sender when he’s not looking. No harm done. At least until that time over the summer when a couple of elderly funeral home employees arrived to follow up on our interest to plan for this not-so-easy time. Oops.

Okay so yeah, credit card. I found my older, expired credit card and handed it to him so that he could put it in his wallet with his library card and at least four of my former driver’s licenses. (Yes, I know, not the smartest move, but it’s not like the wallet leaves the house). But now he’s all wound up, ecstatic, asking questions in detail. I almost thought he was going to start grilling me about the interest rate and ATM fees. 

“So, how much money is on this card?”

I wave the new card in the air. “Well, until I call this one in, I’d say about five grand.”

His eyes go huge. I’m still not catching on that he’s not catching on the joke. 

“Really? I can buy those football pants I want?”

“Yep”

“And a helmet, like, the hundred-dollar helmet at Dicks?”

“Uh, huh.”

“Candy?”

“You bet. By the truckload.”

Here I should’ve seen he was getting entirely too worked up. But we play a lot of games in our house, do a lot of skits. I really thought he knew I wouldn’t hand him a card and tell him to go spend five grand.

But he was flying high.

And that was it. I went to work and never thought twice about telling my son he’d just been given a golden ticket. I get home from work that evening, ready to play or hangout or otherwise have a normal evening. But just as soon as I saw him … uh oh.

His face was like a strawberry. I very upset strawberry.

“What’s wrong, buddy?"

“You lied.”

Tears come rolling, and soon I’m backpedaling. “Wait, I say, trying to make sense of this. I, I was kidding. I wasn’t giving you $5,000.”

I mean, right? I look around. Somebody? Anybody. It's then  I catch a look from my wife, the one that says, You're an idiot. 

Eventually we get it straightened out. I explain to him I was kidding. You know, pretending. That we're living in a material world and I am a material--He's not having it. It's how a victim of one of those prank lottery tickets must feel. The guy's a little ticked about the whole deal. But we come to a compromise. Maybe, just maybe, if he does some chores around the house, gets homework done like he's supposed to, then we can think about those football pants. 

It's not five-grand, but hey, it's low interest. 

And then this morning, pouring our cereal, I find a sheet of paper on the counter. I must have missed it with all the fireworks last night, but it's filled with scrawled crayon, attempts at my name, printed then scratched out then printed again until it's just right. 

I point to it. “What’s this?”

"Oh," my kid shrugs. "I was practicing your name, for when I use the card…”

Oops. 

Aim Low

This post may come out all wrong but it’s something I’ve been turning over in my head for a few days. Months I guess. It goes like this:

For my son, I want to aim low.

That’s right. Low.

There’s so much pressure these days. College talk. Scholarships. Savings plans. Big hopes and dreams for the snowflake.  And that's fine, saving is good, right? Moms and Dads are dreaming big these days. Going to be an awful lot of doctors and lawyers, a surge of professional athletes. 

Obviously a lot of it is said in jest. I hope. You know, kid makes a shot and Dad’s ready for the draft.  But a lot of stuff, it’s there and it's real. It's lurking in the minds and in the hearts of well-meaning parents. And it can be a pressure cooker.

Okay, you say, what are you suggesting? 

Well, I want my kid to succeed…in happiness. 

Hey! Stop rolling your eyes. What I mean is that I want him to do what makes him happy. Sure I want him to dream and fight and try and strive. And right now, at my house, for my kid, happiness consists of taking stuff apart. Popping the hood of my car so that he can study the engine. He likes engines, loves them, and working parts are his thing right now. And if he wants to be an engineer, great, and if he wants to be a mechanic, great too.

Fine by me. He loves to learn about lawn mowers and car engines, even flipping over his toys to see what makes them roll, click, or turn. So yeah, I think for him being a mechanic would be a pretty decent way to make a living.

But when I say it, people think I’m joking.

I’m not.

Trade school sounds like a great plan. College diplomas are becoming increasingly more expensive and well, by the time he’s ready I’m not so sure I want him taking out loans he’ll have to pay for the rest of his life.

And everything is about money. It seems people just go to college to get a job. Okay, I'll say here that yes I’m naive and weird and in the distinct minority because I happen to think that kids should go to college to learn things.

Just to learn things.

I read all the time. Almost anything, because I love it. I’ve read college text books for fun, seriously, and didn’t pay a dime to do it. That said, I know people don’t go to college to learn things. That would be stupid. They go so that they can get a good job.

We need money. But we need time too. We need a healthy balance of time/money/love/ to be happy. To be peaceful. And what’s the point in going into massive debt to go to school to get a good job to get lots of money to pay the debt so that you can work your way into happiness? I think I’m confused.

What if my kid is comfortable? What if he’s a comfortable mechanic who lives a normal, non Earth-shattering life ? What if he does what he loves? 

Also--the kicker here--he could come over and the old man's car when it broke down. Win.

No seriously, this is not about me. What's wrong with comfort? With finding your own groove. Took me half a life to do it and I'm still working to get that groove right. So what do I know? Sure, we can nurture them and provide a stable environment for them to succeed, and if that’s college, great. If not, will figure it out. But in the end, the choice is his to determine.

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.

Observations and Allegations

Just the other day one of Simon’s teachers at his daycare was explaining how he was such an observant little guy. Don’t I know it. Because I'd just tried, and failed, to pull one over on him. 

See, he likes to mow. Loves it. So he mows with me sometimes, with the push mower, carefully, patiently...slowwwwly. Mostly in the front yard and side yard, where it’s flat and easy and takes forever. But there’s a hill in the back and that’s what we call around my house, a daddy job.

So the other day I had a few minutes after work before Mom and son got home. So I took to the hill with the push mower. It’s steep, and it was a little wet, but I got the job done just in time to come running up to the front yard as my wife pulled in.

Success.

So I thought.

Getting out of the car he craned his neck for a better look at me. More like a once over, his searchlight eyes took me in top to bottom. From the sweat on my forehead, down to my spotted shirt, past my dirt-speckled legs and coming to a thoughtful rest at my shoes. I looked down, at the grass clippings and dirt. I was so busted.

“Did you mow, Daddy?”

His tone carried the cadence of a seasoned detective. One who’d seen this kind of thing before and knew how it was going to play out long before I started stammering.

“What, well, I, hill.”

A deep breath. Another long, appraising stare. Up and down, up down. Then he was off, in search of more evidence. By then I was tired, having walked the dogs and tackled the hill, and I was kind of hoping he’d want to take part in a less aerobic activity. No luck there, he hit that hill on a mission, stopping at the backyard with me catching up, trying to explain about Daddy jobs and the dangers of gas powered engines and mowing hills at precarious angles.

“Why is the mower out, Daddy?”

I half expected him to touch test the engine to see if it was warm. I looked up to my wife, smiling. Both of us thinking the same thing.... 

How are we ever going to pull one over on this kid?

Nothing To Do...

With a three-year-old there’s always stuff to do, plenty to do, not-enough-time-to-do-everything amounts of things to do. So when people say or post that there’s nothing to do, I don’t know what to tell them, other than, just go make something to do.

Kids don’t need big, flashy places to have fun. They don't need expensive toys or gadgets either. In fact, kids are fun. Organic, unmanufactured fun. Take the other day for instance, when our ten-year-old neighbor stopped by because well, I guess there wasn’t anything to do. Suddenly we were outside, and the yard was transformed into a town. My kid and this girl, they don't need a lot to work with when it comes to props. A tree became a jail, the walkway was the road. Any littering on that road and well, thus began a screaming giggling chase, and it wasn’t long before we had a jail break. It was chaos. Pure chaos.

Then came Sunday. And once again there was nothing to do.

My kid sat in my car for an hour, working the windshield wipers. We took a walk in the woods and he touched some moss and declared that it was the “carpet of the forest”. He became a doctor, working with his stuffed animals until they were all free and clear of disease. He found a stick in the yard and it became a wand, then a bat, then a machete and then a shovel. He broke said stick and that was kind of a bummer. He came up with no less than four different games on the swing set then found a lizard in the driveway and named it Emo because saying Nemo can be tricky. He met the new neighborhood puppy. He spent three minutes with his head cocked straight up to the sky and watched a jet fly over our house and disappear into the clouds. He found trash in the yard and admonished the litterbug as being naughty (no jail time though). He rubbed his belly and then gave birth (breech) to a stuffed monkey. He rode the riding mowers at Lowes. He helped me do recycling. He went to the park. A tennis ball became the better part of the evening. Later, he built a fort in the couch but refused to take off his left puddle boot and decided—from what I could make through the belly laughter—that Lefty was going to stay on his foot through his bath and even sleep with him and may never ever come off again. He helped me fix his bed. He read books. He wrapped his arm around my neck and said, “I love you, Daddy”.

And that was just Sunday, a day when there was just nothing to do. 

Hide and Seek....Now Repeat

“You find me and I’ll hide.”

It’s not a question. Or a statement really. Actually, now that I wrote it, it makes no sense at all. But in my house it means that my son is going to hide in the couch and I need to play along.

The key here is not to find the little bugger right away, because where’s the fun in that? Then again, I can’t take too long because well, there’s a little guy in the pillows—I mean behind the curtains, I mean under the table, I mean where is he anyway?  That guy will get antsy.

So it takes just the right amount of finding to go with the hiding. And once I do find him, (or when he busts out and announces, "I found myself!”), well, then it’s time to start all over again. So it's important to drag things out, because games have a way of hanging around our house for a long, long time.

“You find me and I’ll hide.”

And again.

And again.

And again.

Now, I like a good winter activity just about as much as any man can enjoy wandering around his house looking in the oven for his kid. But it does, after a while, get a bit redundant. But then again, sometimes when I’m at work, maybe waiting at the water cooler or walking to the bathroom, there in my mind I see this little blonde head popping out of the cushions with that big, half-moon smile on his face.

“You find me and I’ll hide!”

You bet I will.

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...

In Here, Out There

Part of being a parent—besides vacuuming up Goldfish cracker crumbs—is creating a safe place for a child. 

No. Matter. What.

Not quite three, my son is blissfully unaware of the news. And by news I mean all the crummy things happening in the world. He knows our house. His books. Toys. A couple of cartoons. Entirely too much about lawn mowing. And now he's discovered chocolate, so, life is good.

But when I turn on the television, ready to flip on Curious George but then pause because something in the news has caught my attention--maybe a headline about another mass shooting, or a bombing or a protest, could be a manhunt or kidnapping, wreck, hostage, drowning, fire, flood or famine--he’ll call to me, with wondering eyes that beg to know what I’m doing. Then I remember. The cartoon.

Recently I came across a speech from years ago. Reagan, addressing the country before we bombed Libya. It was posted it on Facebook for some political reason or another, but I found myself remembering that speech. More specifically, remembering the exact moment.

I was a kid, in our basement of our little house.The good old 1980's, back when the world was great. At least for me. My parents had bills and worries and the world had crime and injustice. But for me, everything was GI Joe and Knight Rider. The Cosby Show, Family Ties and the like. Our house was my refuge from school, the world....you know, Out There.

But in our basement that night--with Reagan, going on about those strikes on Libya to oust Gadhafi from power and how the middle east was in turmoil--a big old chunk of Out There cut right into my regularly scheduled programming. And it was a little bit scary.

Who knew the world was such a mess? Not me. Not then. I was surrounded by love and music. Allowed to be a kid, to do goofy kid things and build forts or complain about a tear in my parachute pants. How I needed a new pair of sneakers.

But that Reagan moment sticks out because of that brief glimpse of out there all over my parents' faces. Silent and glued to the television, just for a second, just like me when I hear about things going on out there now. I was safe because my parents made sure of it.

In Here.

Now it’s my turn. Even though things move quicker now—at least the news does. But it's my job to create In Here, and let Out There come later. He'll get plenty of it later...

Just Take A Second...

I’m by no means a perfect parent. I have plenty of impatient, un-blogworthy moments. I get frustrated, baffled, and feel overwhelmed as I try to navigate the waters of fatherhood. But still, I’ll always try to be the best parent I can be.

I was at the gas station the other day. It was a mild, easygoing Sunday afternoon. A lady was leaving, pushing a stroller. A boy of maybe six followed. By the way she spoke to the kids I’ll assume that she was the boy’s mother. On the way out of the store, the boy bent down to study something in the parking lot—a bug, leaf, caterpillar or something—and the mother lost her sh*!. She exploded, shouting for the boy to hurry along. The little guy tried, but he was having a time peeling away from whatever it was on the pavement. So she stomped over and yanked him along.

I’m not going to pretend that I thought the world was perfect or anything. But come on, can’t why not give him a minute? They were walking, there was no fire that I could see, why not let the little boy take a few minutes and look at something that catches his eye?

Again, I have plenty of flaws. Just the other evening, on my watch of course, my son took a spill into the fire pit (there was no fire) and scraped his leg. I’ve knocked him down hovering too close at the park. And I’ve been in a rush while dropping him off at daycare on mornings where I was running late. But still, I always give him a minute to explore—to take a second and appreciate a bug. A stick. A rock. Especially now. Because in a few years I won't remember my long boring day at work or whatever mundane thing I was doing. But I’ll remember my kid. And I want him to remember his childhood as a wild learning ride, not a rushed parent.

*And now for the preachy conclusion to this post.

Maybe that’s why a lot of kids grow up without an appreciation for their surroundings. We always hear how they litter and don't respect nature or the world in which they live. Maybe because they don’t know anything about it. 

My wife teaches second grade, and I couldn't believe it when she told how many kids have never even squished Play-Doh around in their fingers. How can we not have time to let our kids play? What could be important to us than them? We stare at phones constantly. We check our apps and our statuses and immerse ourselves in meaningless blather. So the least we can do is let our children check out their surroundings every once and a while. It’s amazing what sticks with them. 

Okay sorry. Where were we?

After the gas station incident I let my son play with an ant until the ant finally scurried up a tree and escaped. And you know what? The next time he was outside he went right for the tree, bypassing his toy mower and big wheel and bubble machine. I sat down in the grass, barefoot and smiling. My son was looking for an ant.

It's Hard Being the Favorite...

My back is aching. I haven’t eaten a meal at the house without thirty pounds of wiggling on my lap all week. I’m requested for diaper changes and hand washing. In the evenings he comes to me with a book, then calls out for me in the darkest hours of the night.

Let me just say, it’s hard work being the favorite.

Poor me. As the father of a two year old, the parental tide has turned in our household. Mom, once the sustainer of life, always the nurturer and steady caregiver, has found herself dropped to second place in favor of a chump. Don’t ask me how it happened.

I remember when he was stuck to Mom’s chest, how people told me not to worry, that my turn was coming, how little boys tend to want Daddy around this time. And don’t get me wrong, I love it. It’s just a lot of work, is all.

Yes, I know, I deserve to be laughed at for saying it. I’ve had a pretty easy ride here. I was the one heading out to play basketball or sleeping soundly through the night while my wife lugged the little guy around in her belly. I’d flop and flip and stretch out while she was stuck on one side, her back a wreck and her ankles swollen. After that it was her breast feeding and soothing voice that kept the baby from crying.

She was a natural. I was terrified.

And here I come along, with my fart jokes and cheap slapstick comedy routines and the little guy has stars in his eyes.

That’s gotta hurt.

Because Mom's the one who knows just what to fix him for dinner, while we play hockey or basketball in the hallway. Sure, I carry my weight and all, but still, I’m kind of just a big clown.

And I'll even let you in on a littel secret: Mom is actually the fun one. For the first year of his life I was what one might call, overprotective. I developed a newfound affinity for bubble wrap. I didn’t want my kid to be outside for fear of a falling satellite (It could happen). I told anyone who came near to watch his head, (that soft spot just kind of freaked me out).

I may have even been what you would consider, a stick in the mud. And now that he’s running and gunning I swoop in like I'm Captain Cool? Man, what a cheater...

So she shouldn't worry. Just sit back and enjoy that silver medal. Because the tide will turn again, I'm sure he’ll come to his senses and realize that Mom’s pretty good stuff. How could he not? He’s seen what I do to a grilled cheese sandwich, or my confounding attempts to fold his little shirts. And that lid on his sippy cup, what is this, a puzzle? I’m good for chasing him down the hallway or making up silly songs at breakfast. But certain things I just can’t do.

People of WalMart

Outside, the chimney is smoking, the sledding track is glimmering slick, and the snowman stands solid on his night watch. After finally getting a significant snowfall in Virginia, we've enjoyed a string of snow day adventures.

At two, my son is enjoying the snow much more than last year. We've sledded and walked, made snow angels and read every book in the house. School was closed for a week and my wife spent regained her spot as the favorite parent. Life is good.

Another perk of the snowfall was empty stores. Over the weekend we had a big family outing....to WalMart.

We needed to print off some pictures, you know, like on paper that you put in frames? But seeing how empty the store was inside, my wife and I looked at each other and thought, Why not have a little fun first?

My kid’s favorite book at the moment is Duck on a Bike, which is a really cool book that I highly recommend. Only now my kid really wants a bike. We've spent more than a few afternoons in the basement, him balanced up on my Trek and me wobbling him along at a snail careful pace.

But WalMart has little bikes, and our little duck was ready and willing.

We slapped a helmet on his head and set off. My mind tangled with a barrage of neurotic thoughts--germs, bacteria, how skinny Beck has gotten-- but just like the duck, we started slow, inching through the lawn and garden section. If there’s anything my son loves more than bikes, it’s lawnmowers.

Our bike tour continued, through the vast array of shovels and hoses, we strolled on to the birdhouses, picking up speed as we zipped along to the home decor.

The aisles were empty and wonderful. Only once did we have to veer off course, seeing a woman in sorta-fitting pajamas over near the Easter candy. Then we were off again as I tugged him past the mirrors--because hey, he liked what he saw. Then we whisked by the vacuums, off to the trash cans, we looped around shiny pots and pans before drifting back over to the sporting equipment. All the while he laughed and giggled and shouted the word duck repeatedly. (And you can probably imagine what that sounded like).

After a few more loops around the store I knew it was going to be tough getting our little duck off the bike. But we managed. And as far as trips to Wally World go, it wasn’t too miserable. And he only muttered a few ducks as I lifted him from the bike.

He looks so big in this picture, but I'm not going to do it, I'm not going to say how he's growing up so fast. I refuse to say how it was only yesterday that I was holding him in my arms. Nope, no references to a little duckling becoming a duck. Not going to do it...

Hey...I'm A Real Live Parent!

First let me start by saying I've completely become that parent who used to annoy me so much. You know the ones. Big goofs who overly dote on their kid?

Check. Or how about the ones who post their kid's finger paintings? 

Check. What about the ones who take pictures of every. Little. Thing?

Check. Check. And to whom do I make out the check?

And now with the new school year upon us, my wife, the teacher, the maker of dinners and tamer of wild men and boys, was busy last night meeting parents and kids. Yes, it's that time again. Time to usher in another wonderful first week of school. (Okay, I put a spin on that, her classroom is currently without air conditioning and twelve hour days are kind of a bummer.) But never to fear. As  I'm the do-it-all kind of parent that I claim to be, I was up for the task, and came out to pick up our son after work. 

I entered the school to a circus of animated kids and exhausted parents roaming the halls. I nodded to administrators and teachers, all of whom seemed a little bewildered at the thought of another whole year of school. Making my way through the debris of checklists and guidlines, I found my son tucked away from the disarray and thankfully out of harm's way.

Simon was in Mommy's classroom, content and quiet, coloring at the table while parents filled out forms at the desk. Oh, and when I say coloring, I mean tattooing himself with Crayola markers, both arms were inked up to the elbow. But then he looked up and smiled, I felt my knees get a little weak when he let go with a big old "Daaadeee!"

You know those parents who really, really can't believe how fast their kid is growing up? 

Check.

It was Daddy to the rescue. And with Mom up to her eyeballs with parents and forms and, well, chaos, I scooped up the kid and we got out of dodge. 

First stop was the grocery store, where I we got just the necessities. Bread and Ice Cream. Okay we got apples too, but I quickly realized that we needed to hurry. I tried keeping him in the cart, but he wanted out and let the whole store know about it. And I don’t have little tricks or snacks in my purse to keep him occupied. I don’t even have a purse.

At home, we got busy with manly activities. Well, after we did the dishes--his idea. If my kid loves two things, it’s a vacuum and the sink. Well, maybe three things, because you should have seen his little face light up when he assisted me with some small projects around the house, fixing those rickety old chairs in the dining room—which involved the drill.

Playing around the house, things were moving quickly. It was already dinnertime. I took the easy route. PB & J, and then sat back and watched him destroy it, nearly losing a finger in the process. As he ate, I thought back to those times when it was just my dad and me. Cue flashback music...

When my dad was in charge of dinner, it usually involved grilled cheese and the fire alarm. He could also do eggs, sorta, just nothing fancy. But what I enjoyed most during those times was the great conversations we’d have over dessert. 

I’m kidding, we just stuffed our faces.

But I do remember how Dad fixed dessert, vanilla ice cream with hot chocolate syrup. Popping the can open, (yes, can), he'd warm it on the stove. Then we’d sit down at the table with our two bowls of vanilla ice cream, and drizzle the steaming Hershey’s syrup over our heaping mounds of ice cream. Sugary madness.

And that's what I had in mind when I grabbed the plastic container of syrup and nuked it for thirty seconds. (Don’t worry, he just had plain old vanilla). And for the next five minutes, the house settled into a delicious, lip-smacking silence. 

The rest of the night was standard fare—vacuum time, a little outside time, then bath time. We had a lot of fun, and I realized that at some point I have become a real, live parent. And that just about blows my mind. 

After bath, I got the little guy all cleaned up and in pajamas, snuggling up on me as we read Curious George until Mom came home and scooped him up for herself. I handed him over with a smile, because I'd held the fort down and every thing was running on schedule. At least until this morning, when my wife noticed that the kitchen was covered in chocolate.