#281 In which our hero relates the events of The Great Daycare Debacle (part 5)

But, before we confronted the director, we needed a back-up plan. The Scientist and I were trying our best to be fair, and were willing to hear this guy out… but we both expected the conversation to end the same way: with us yanking the girls out of that daycare on the spot. And if that was going to happen, we needed somewhere else to put them.

We revisited the list of acceptable daycare centers in the area. On was still out because they wouldn’t transport Lily to Kindergarten. We went round and round, but kept coming back to the one center that I liked so much, but was too expensive.

The Scientist got creative with our finances, and it began to appear like we could swing it, just. Or maybe we’d be slowly sinking into debt. Either way, we had gone the cheap route once, and it had bit us on the ass. We weren’t going to do that to the girls again. You get what you pay for, after all, and we were willing to pay what it took, even if it meant maintaining more debt than we wanted for longer than we wanted.

We called the “good” center first thing in the morning and scheduled a meeting. We dropped the girls off at the “bad” center, then headed right over to the other place.

We told this new director our tale of woe, and she was horrified. She reassured us that the children always come first, and that they’d never transport in a private car, and they had an established curriculum, etc., etc. I had already been there once, so I had heard all this before. We talked money and how soon the girls could start (immediately, was the answer, thankfully) and so on. We told the director of this new place that we still needed to talk to the director of the old place first. She was very understanding. We took a bunch of paperwork with us, and drove over to the “bad” center.

The director of this center is a very cheerful guy. A very “no problem!” sort of guy. While this is generally a good attribute, it wasn’t winning him any points when he told us that the illegal turn and subsequent citation was “no big deal.”

We sat down and asked him to tell us what happened. He repeated the story pretty much as it had been told to me the day before from the teacher. She made an illegal turn, got pulled over, was so upset that she couldn’t drive back to the center.

So I asked, “She was cited for an illegal turn on red? That was the ONLY citation?” And he assured me that yes, that was the only citation.

Then I told him that Lily had told us that the teacher’s license was expired.

He danced around this for a moment before confirming that, well, yes, as it turns out, her license was expired. We told him that we were pretty horrified that he didn’t know that one of the teachers in his employ was transporting kids with an expired driver’s license. I mean, isn’t that his job to keep track of things like that? He told us that it wasn’t expired when he put her on the center’s insurance.

He tried to glad-hand us some more, reassuring us that he really was taking the situation seriously, but that in actuality it was no big deal. Frankly, I had heard enough already, and decided to end it right then and there.

ME: So, when you told me that Miss A--- was only cited for an illegal turn on red, that wasn’t the truth.
DIRECTOR: Well, at the time, I didn’t know her license had expired.
ME: But when I asked you the question ten minutes ago, you DID know.
DIRECTOR: Well, um, yes, I guess I did.
ME: Okay, we’re done here.

We pulled out the kids on the spot and took them over to the new center.

The director of the new place was very accommodating, and let the girls spend the rest of the day there, getting used to the place. We took a little time with the director, making sure she knew Lily’s schedule of when she had to get to school, and when she had to be picked up.

I was a little concerned that no other kids in the center were going to Lily’s Kindergarten, meaning that she was the only one to be transported to this particular school. This was the issue at the last place. But the director assured us that it wouldn’t be a problem. And I wasn’t really all that worried; this place had it’s act together.

We picked up the girls at the end of the day, and they had had a fantastic time. They actually didn’t want to leave. Very encouraging.

The Scientist dropped Lily off at school in the morning, after briefing her on how she was going to get back to the center at the end of the school day. Things were going seamlessly.

Then, at 3pm, the school called my wife. No-one from the new center had shown to pick up Lily.

I was furious. Bad enough to think that my little 5-year-old daughter was standing at the bus stop waiting, waiting, waiting for a bus that never came; but we had just told the director at the new center about all the bullshit we went through in the past couple months. She was SO horrified and SO sympathetic and now this?!

As my wife was rushing out of work to pick up Lily, I called the center.

ME: Let me speak to the center director.
FLUNKY: I’m sorry, she’s out right now. This is the assistant director, can I help you?
ME: Yes, you'll do. This is Lily’s father—
FLUNKY: Oh yes! We’re just waiting for Lily to get back.
ME: Well, you’re going to be waiting a long damn time because the school just called to say that your bus never showed up!

She was, of course, very apologetic and blah, blah, blah. I drove over there after work to talk to the director, who was equally apologetic. She is a bit of an over-talking and rushed over my words in her haste to reassure me that this would never happen again and I finally had to say, let me finish! to say my peace.

She told me that it was just a scheduling problem, that they thought they could make a stop at another school before picking Lily up but it took longer than they thought and it was fixed now and would never be a problem again.

Then, the next day, it happened again.

While I am quick to anger, my wife is much less so. But after having to leave work early two days in a row she was in a rage to put mine to shame.

This time, the bus actually got there, but just after the school’s cut-off time. The school, which is really strict about these things, told the bus driver, basically, sorry Charlie, and wouldn’t release Lily. And honestly, I’d glad of it. I like it that her school has a no compromises policy on stuff like this.

So, we had another discussion with the center director. We told her that if she couldn't get her act together enough to pick up our kid on time, that we were gone. She told us that she had a new plan, that they were actually going to get another bus from a nearby center and that she, the center director, was personally going to drive Lily to and from school.

Good.

I’m pleased to report that this new center has been successfully transporting my kid for months now. No emergency calls from the school. No problems.

And both girls love it at this place. They are learning things, and we get daily report cards on their progress.

It took some doing, but it would appear that we finally got it right.

fin

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#280 In which our hero relates the events of The Great Daycare Debacle (part 4)

So it came to pass that I didn’t get to any of the projects I had planned for when I had the house to myself, because I was too busy calling and visiting daycare centers. I stuck to commercial centers (we weren’t going to put our kids into private care again) that were reasonably close to the house, so that narrowed the choices down to four.

Finding daycare this time around was a little trickier, since Lily would be going to Kindergarten in the fall, meaning the center would have to transport her to school in the morning, and pick her up at the last bell. Then she’d be at the center until The Scientist or I could pick her up around 5:30.

One school on the list didn’t transport to her Kindergarten, so it was right out. Another one was at the intersection of two really busy streets, and I thought it would be a nightmare getting in and out of there. A third was fantastic, but just too expensive.

That left one.

This center was housed in an old schoolhouse, so it had plenty of big, spacious classrooms. But “old” is the key word here. It was a little run-down… not dilapidated, but certainly not new. The basement smelled like mildew. The (admittedly large) playground had old, rusted climbing toys. And a swing set without any swings.

I had my reservations, but the people (especially the center director) were really nice. The classroom sizes were small, meaning that our kids would be getting lots of individualized attention. And they had a curriculum plan in place so the girls would be learning something. And we could afford it.

And, honestly, I was running out of time.

I really wanted to put our kids in the awesome center, but since we didn’t have the money, this was probably the next best thing. Or, maybe the only viable option.

So, The Scientist and the girls returned from their trip on Sunday, and we got them ready for the new place on Monday. The beginning of Kindergarten was still a couple months away, which was good in that it gave Lily plenty of time to acclimate to the new place before another disruptive element was added to the routine.

The girls quickly settled in to the new center. And things were fine… not great, but fine.

There were some things that didn’t really raise a red flag, but were a little… off. The woman who monitored the girls first thing in the morning was strange. Quiet, withdrawn, emotionless. Not someone you’d look at and say, “Oh, she just LOVES children!”

After a week or so there, we asked the girls if they were having lessons. They said they weren’t. This confirmed something that we had seen… it appeared that no matter what time of day we picked up, they were just playing. Education is very important to both The Scientist and I, and when asked about the curriculum the center director kept telling us that the teachers were “working on it.”

And then one day some little bastard in the classroom wrote “Kick Me” on the back of Lily’s white shirt, in ink.

We knew this wasn’t the best situation, just an emergency fix. And again, it was what we could afford. We rationalized it by saying that Lily would soon be attending Kindergarten, and would only be spending a few hours at the center. And Macey… well, Macey got the short end of the stick. But there wasn’t much we could do about it.

Lily eventually started going to Kindergarten. We had some bothersome conversations with the center director about transportation. We made it clear that she had to be AT school at a certain time, and had to be picked up FROM school at a certain time. His attitude was very much, “don’t worry, we’ll get her there one way or another!” Which isn’t what we wanted to hear… he may have been lackadaisical about it, but we wanted to know EXACTLY when she would be getting there and EXACTLY who would be driving her to school.

The center had some scheduling issues with Lily. Since she was the only one being dropped off/picked up at this particular school, they had to work around it to get all the other kids where they needed to be. I tried to be understanding and considerate about this… but the director said, “Eh, if she’s a little late, she’s a little late.” To which I relied, “No, she can’t be a little late. She needs to be on time, and it’s YOUR job to make sure she’s on time.”

Things came to a head a couple months later.

At this point Lily was being transported by a teacher in her car instead of the center’s van. This made us a little bit nervous, but we were told that the teacher was "certified" to transport children, whatever that meant. And I guess it didn’t really make a difference if it was a van or a car, right?

One afternoon I showed up to pick up the girls, and Lily’s teacher rushed over to me. She told me that there was an incident, and she wanted to explain what happened before we heard it from Lily.

It seems that this teacher made an illegal right turn on red, and was pulled over for it. She had never gotten a ticket in her life before, and was so upset by the situation, she explained to me, that the center director had to come pick her and Lily up.

Now, I wasn’t that upset by this. I mean, I knew the intersection she was talking about, and even though it’s labeled no right on red, I could see making that mistake. And I’ve been ticketed myself for an illegal turn on red. Lily wasn’t upset or frightened by the experience, and there was no accident or near-miss that might have put her in harm’s way. I was prepared to let it slide.

Then, Lily and I had a conversation on the way home:

ME: Lily, what happened today?
LILY: Nothing.
ME: No? You didn’t have a police man stop you on the way home?
LILY: Oh yeah! Miss A--- broke a law!
ME: I heard! And were you frightened when it happened?
LILY: No.
ME: Was Miss A--- upset?
LILY: No, not really.
ME: No? She wasn’t crying or anything?
LILY: No.
ME: Did the police man say anything to her?
LILY: Yeah! He said she turned wrong.
ME: Yes, she sure did.
LILY: He also said that her license died a year ago.
ME: Wait, what did he say?
LILY: He said her license died a year ago.
ME: Did he maybe say her license expired a year ago?
LILY: Yeah! That’s what he said!

No-one had said anything to me about her license being expired, and I had no reason not to believe my daughter. She sometimes tells tales, but this didn’t seem like something she could make up.

The Scientist was equally concerned about this development. A minor traffic infraction is one thing, but being lied to was something entirely different.

Now, driving on an expired license is a dumb thing, but not necessarily a dangerous thing. It wasn’t like this teacher would drive safer with a valid license. But the real issue was that we were be lied to. Or, at the very least, not told the entire truth.

This incident, in addition to all the other little things that we didn’t like, pretty much decided it for us. We didn’t want the girls there any longer. If the teachers would lie about something like this, then they might lie about other, more important things. And we were not going to leave our kids in a facility that we didn’t trust.

So, we planned to confront the center director the next morning.

To be concluded.

***

#279 In which our hero relates the events of The Great Daycare Debacle (part 3)

The new daycare was a storefront building. Actually, two storefronts with the dividing wall removed. The space had some nice advantages over the rooms at the church, notably better security and self-contained kitchen space. But, there were some rather big drawbacks, too.

Overall, the space was smaller. Half of the place had been a dentist’s office, and was still very compartmentalized. The other half of the space was essentially one huge room, which would serve as the infants and really young kid’s space. Also, the only outdoor space was a small, fenced-in section of asphalt. This was a huge bummer for the girls, especially after the huge yard and swings and climbing equipment of the church.

Since this was an emergency move, the entire half for the infants wasn’t ready. A big sheet of plywood blocked the entrance to that side. It was really cramped.

But, the girls still got to hang out with all their little friends all day, and still had their favorite teacher, so all was well.

For a time.

Then, Susan ran into money problems again. A significant amount of the kids in her daycare were lower income, and those families paid for daycare with the help of government vouchers. Which was actually great for Susan because, unlike a lot of the parents, the feds always paid tuition on time.

Well, since Susan had moved in and started operating the daycare before renovations were completed, that meant that she was no longer certified by the state. And while you can legally operate a daycare without state certification, there are consequences. The biggest one being that you are not allowed to receive vouchers. Susan found out the hard way that a big part of her venue stream was suddenly shut off at the tap.

Then, things just got weird.

Susan was apparently have troubles in her marriage. Which is none of my business. But it was made my business when her husband emailed a copy of an IM chat to all of the parents in the daycare. In this chat Susan was flirting (rather innocently, IMO) with some other man.

A month or so after that, Susan’s husband called The Scientist at home. He told her that Susan had left him, and that she was now living with another man. And this man had a criminal record. He provided his name and birthday and invited us to look up his record on the Internet.

Which we did, of course. It wasn’t a violent crime, but it still made us feel strange. The Scientist asked one of Susan’s kids (her kids were always with her at the center) about this guy, and she replied that he was fine, “as long as you give him his respect.” This unnerved me, and The Scientist, too.

We both knew that if Susan was living with this guy, he was going to be around the center and, by definition, around our kids. And we didn’t like that.

There was some other stuff happening at the same time, and I’m sure I’m forgetting some of the little stuff, but the end result was that we decided that it was time to pull the plug on Susan.

It certainly wasn’t an easy decision, especially considering that we had been with her for more than four years and our kids loved it there. But we worried that things were only going to get worse, and perhaps even get to the point where unsafe things were happening.

As it happened, The Scientist and the girls were out of town for a week visiting the in-laws when all this came to a head. The Scientist and I hashed everything out over the phone. I had some time off, so I took it and started to look for a new daycare. Thankfully, there are plenty to choose from in our area.

I found one (more on that later), I signed papers, and it was a done deal. The girls would be starting in this new place the Monday after they returned from their trip.

All that was left was to tell Susan.

I wasn’t looking forward to it. I suspected that she would feel betrayed. Which, I decided, was fine… she could feel however the hell she wanted, because I no longer felt like my kids were in a safe environment, and that was that. It was good that my wife was out of town and I handled the “break up.” The Scientist probably would have apologized, and over-explained and most likely cry. In contrast, I went in, pulled Susan aside, and told her that we were leaving the daycare.

I told her that there was just too much drama around her. Between her husband calling us, her new living arrangements and some other things, we were done. I told her that we weren’t mad at her, but we couldn’t stay. There was no drama in this moment, just me telling her the way it was going to be. I collected the extra clothes the girls had there and their medical records, and was gone.

Meanwhile, The Scientist did her best to prepare the girls for the change that was coming on Monday.

To be continued.

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#278 In which our hero relates the events of The Great Daycare Debacle (part 2)

I’m not always as quick on my feet as I’d like, but if you give me the chance to prepare some remarks in advance, I think I can lay down a pretty good argument. So I spent some time putting my thoughts together, and I thought I had a pretty good set of points in favor of the day care moving into the church. They were, in order of importance:

1. Much-needed income
2. Lots of new people (i.e., potential members) coming to the church for the first time
3. More diverse people coming to the church

The “debate” – if you want to call it that—was conduced pro/con/pro/con, with me speaking second.

I found the “con” arguments not very convincing, since they basically boiled down to “we don’t wanna.” One presenter tried to bolster his argument with numbers, basically trying to say that Susan wasn’t going to be paying enough compared to what other tenets paid. Which was absolutely ridiculous, considering that one of the other tenets was a kindergarten co-op which hadn’t had a rent increase in 15 YEARS.

All of this information was presented and we were told that the powers that be would discuss it and get back to us with a decision.

During this entire process The Scientist and I were encouraging Susan to NOT move into the church. I mean, the church was sending a clear signal that they (or, at least, a significant number of them) didn’t want her there… why go knowingly into a situation where the people are already biased against you? But Susan was determined.

Things drug on for weeks, and finally through whatever maneuvering needed to be done, Susan’s contract for two rooms in the church was approved.

As predicted, there were a lot of sour looks from the trustees. And, frankly, they continued to do whatever they could to screw Susan over. First, they made her pay rent that was considerably higher than what other renters were paying. They made her agree to clear the snow and ice by the side entrance herself. She was responsible for hauling trash out to the dumpsters. I found the entire thing rather un-Christian.

That said, Susan was far from the perfect tenant. You’d think that she would tread softly, being that she knew she wasn’t exactly being welcomed with open arms. But she didn’t. She moved in and made herself at home. She helped herself to room within the church’s kitchen, which wasn’t mentioned in the contract. She allowed the kids to run around in the gym, which wasn’t one of the rooms she contracted for. She basically took advantage of what little goodwill there might have been. Even those in the church who wanted her there started to give her sideways glances.

The Scientist and I both saw this, and cautioned her. But Susan is very much a “ask forgiveness, not permission” sort of person.

So, things were a little contentious at the new space. But, after a year or so, things pretty much settled down. I don’t know if the church saw that she wasn’t going to be as big a thorn in their sides as they thought, or maybe they just really started to like the new income.

Susan expanded at the church, renting two more rooms for a total of four. She and the church came to an agreement about using the kitchen and the gym. Honestly, things were pretty good for a time.

Now, The Scientist and I still had qualms about certain things. We were both on her board of directors, but were rarely informed of any significant changes. Staff turnover was higher than we would like. Some of the women who worked there seemed a little lazy. EVERYONE who worked there (including Susan) were on their cell phones ALL THE TIME.

But, we never felt like our children were in any danger, and Susan was pretty aggressive about introducing a real curriculum. Our children (Macey had been born by this time and was at the center) were learning things… it wasn’t just a babysitting service.

But, the wheels really came off a couple years later.

Susan had always wanted her own building. She wanted a space were she wouldn’t have to deal with so many restrictions and, I suspect, so many sour faces. One day she informed The Scientist and I that she had found a place, and was moving forward with plans to open a second center.

I was really annoyed with this. As a board member (The Scientist was the President of the Board, no less), she should have consulted with us first. But by the time we were brought into the loop she had already signed a contract.

My wife had more important concerns, namely, could Susan afford to open a second center? We weren’t privy to her financials, but even though I’m sure she made a profit, she wasn’t raking in the dough by any means. And the space she had put money down on needed significant modifications. In fact, other than the lobby, the entire space had to be gutted and rebuilt from scratch.

But, Susan assured us that she had run the numbers and it was going to work out. She could maintain the current center in the church, and open the new one at the same time.

Somehow the church got wind of this new center, and started asking Susan if she was leaving. No, no, she told them, I’m opening a second location, not leaving the first.

Then, a series of events occurred that didn’t surprise The Scientist or I at all. The construction of the new center was more expensive than anticipated, and took longer than planned. Susan began to run out of money, and became late in paying her rent to the church.

The church—never happy with having her there in the first place, remember—saw this as an excellent opportunity to drive her out (this is only my opinion, of course… but events really seemed to support it).

They demanded the rent in full, even after Susan made it clear that she didn’t have it. One evening (she was already three months late at this point) members of the trustees approached her and demanded she write a check for a partial amount on the spot. She did. At this point Susan’s story and the church’s story diverge: Susan claims that she told them right then and there that there wasn’t enough money in the account to cover the check, but if they wanted one, by God she’d write one. The church claims that she never said anything about insignificant funds. Sadly, I believe the church.

After the check bounced things really came to a head. The church changed the locks on her, and said she couldn’t get back in until she paid in full. They did let her go in and retrieve some of her stuff and pack it over to the new site, but locked her out again (in the pouring rain) before she got everything, screaming at her the entire time.

At this point Susan decided to just go ahead and dump the church and open up in the new space, even though it wasn’t finished. Frankly, I think this was her plan all along: to string along the church until the construction in the new place was done, then jump ship. Even though she swore she never intended to leave.

The screaming/moving/raining incident happened on a Friday, and the next Monday we took the kids to the new place.

To be continued.

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#277 In which our hero relates the events of The Great Daycare Debacle (part 1)

Daycare was one of the biggest challenges The Scientist and I had to address early on in the child rearing process. I mean, not just us, most all working parents, but I don’t really care about anyone else’s childcare problems. We don’t have any family in the area (none close enough to sit daily, at least) so we were going to need outside help.

We were told repeatedly that if we wanted quality care we needed to get daycare locked down before we even had children. So, when my wife was seven months pregnant or so, I started to look for daycare. This task fell to me since I was laid off at the time.

We started with the big centers, the KinderCare’s and Child Time’s and the like. We found them to be too expensive. So we started to look for in-home day care. The Scientist had a list of providers that had been vetted to some degree by her employer. So I started there.

Most wouldn’t even talk to me.

That is to say, when they learned that my child hadn’t been born yet, they wouldn’t. “Call back when she is three months old,” was a common sentiment. This, of course, flew in the face of what we had been told about getting everything lined up well in advance.

But a few showed interest, so I went to check them out. One lady had an incredibly small and cramped house, and another wasn’t home when I showed up at our pre-arranged time. Both of them didn’t make the cut.

I interviewed one woman who seemed nice, had a big house with a huge fenced-in back yard, and seemed loving. She was already watching a couple kids, and had room for one more in the fall (when The Scientist was expecting). I liked her, and told my wife that I thought this could work out.

The Scientist went to visit herself a couple days later, and agreed. “Susan” was our new daycare provider!

As new parents, we were freaked out by the prospect of having someone we didn’t really know that well mind our children for five to eight hours a day. But we both needed to work, so we didn’t really have much of a choice.

We liked Susan, and Lily seemed to be doing just fine. She met a bunch of other little kids and developed friendships. In fact, if nothing had changed, our kids might still be happily spending their days with Susan today.

But things did change.

Susan started to get more inquires about childcare than she could manage in her home--Ohio regulates this, and there’s a limit to the number of children who can be watched by one person. In fact, Susan already had an assistant who came in to help her out. It was getting really crowded. So Susan began to think big and branch out into a commercial space.

As coincidence would have it, the church that The Scientist and I attended had some empty rooms in its education wing. These were basically two classrooms that were only being used for storage and the occasional Sunday school. Susan got wind of this and inquired at the church about renting them.

And here’s where it all started to go downhill.

A little background first: this church is a small Methodist church (although the religion really has nothing to do with the rest of the story)--small, that is, in the number of parishioners; the building itself is rather huge (and ugly, it was constructed in the late 60s, I believe; it’s a big grey cinderblock square with an attached bell tower). It’s also an old congregation. The Scientist and I were welcomed with open arms as everyone was happy to see “young people” in the church again. My wife and I were both in our late 30s when we started going there.

We also quickly realized that everyone had their designated roles and didn’t take kindly to anyone trying to rock the boat. How much so we wouldn’t realize until later.

So, Susan sent a letter to the church outlining how she’d like to move her daycare into the empty classrooms. As is their typical process, this letter was shunted to the trustees for consideration.

The trustees, without comment, rejected the idea.

Now, something I didn’t mention was that the church is poor. With a dwindling congregation and a giant space to heat, the bills far surpassed the income. I was puzzled why the church would turn away anyone who came offering money.

Now, I have my theories. The obvious one is that since Susan is black, and the church congregation is wholly white, that someone in the church didn’t think it would be a good fit, to put it charitably. I hope this isn’t the real reason, and I don’t think this church is racist by nature… but I can’t rule out the idea, either.

Another theory (and probably the real reason) is that no-one wanted to deal with what they feared would be additional work to accommodate the day care. The kids would be using a side door that’s not usually used, so in the winter someone would have to shovel and ice that area of the sidewalk; there would be extra trash that would have to be hauled to the dumpsters in back; and, good heavens, can you imagine the noise of a bunch of kids running around in the hallways?

I don't know what made the trustees say no, but no they did say.

This not only puzzled me, it puzzled Susan, too. So much so that she went directly to the pastor for more information. Turns out, the pastor didn’t know anything about it. That is to say, none of the trustees bothered to tell her that a potential revenue source had come knocking, and they refused to open the door.

Now, I should also mention that the pastor at the time had only been at the church for a year or so, and was not very well liked. She had some new ideas that weren’t well received, and her sermons tended to ramble and go long.

But this pastor saw an opportunity to beef up the bottom line and probably--less opportunistically--thought she could reach out to the community, help foster quality child care in town, help a local small businesswoman, blah, blah, blah. But really, I suspect dollar signs were the first thing she saw. I know that’s what I would have felt in her position.

So the pastor pushed back on the trustees, and it got a little ugly. Like I said, everyone had well defined roles in the church, and the trustees didn’t take kindly to this new pastor trying to force something past them. There were meetings and heated words and finally the higher-ups got involved.

The church had a “charge conference,” in which a high-ranking official for the region came in and had a town hall-style discussion in which both sides, pro and con, had time to present their position.

Susan asked me to speak in favor of having the center move into the church.

To be continued.

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#276 In which our hero encourages, nay, begs, his children to enjoy soccer practice.

Couple of months ago The Scientist was browsing through the catalog put out by our city’s recreational board. They offer a wide variety of “enrichment” programs for kids and adults (in fact, I took their “creative writing workshop” offering for a year or so). There’s a bunch of kids’ program, including sports. We thought the “Hummingbird Soccer” program (kids 3-6) sounded good.

We talked it up, and they seemed excited about it. They sometimes kick a soccer ball around with the little boys across the street, and it was strictly beginner level, so we thought they’d get something out of it.

Now, The Scientist and are aren’t die-hard sports fans by any stretch. While we’re both very active and competitive in our given activities, these activities are far from mainstream sports, and I’d be surprised if anyone thought of us as “jocks.” So we’re really just trying to expose the girls to sports, not force them into it. Personally, I think team sports are extremely important for the lessons they teach about teamwork, working together, dealing with losing, etc. And, y’know, who doesn’t want to be the guy sitting in the stands bragging, “That’s MY daughter who just made that goal!” And at 4-years-old and 5-years-old, respectively, we didn’t expect our kids to be God’s gift to athletics, but we thought that at the very least they’d get to run around with a bunch of other kids their age and have a lot of fun.

They did not. In fact, they hated it.

But not right off the bat. In fact, it started on a very promising note. The first day we were one of the first to arrive, and they got first pick of the soccer balls they’d use that day, and got their team t-shirts (they were both on the “red” team). All told, there were probably 40 kids on the field, in about eight teams. The first half of the one hour practice was drills. The coach had them kick the balls around, kick them in the goal, etc. Fun stuff. Them seemed to be enjoying it. For the most part.

About 20 minutes in we noticed they started to run off the field to visit us. First, they wanted a drink of water (which we completely forgot to bring the first session, since we’re terrible parents), then they just wanted a hug, then they started to complain they were tired.

We were very accommodating of this at first (“Okay, here’s your hug. Umph! Great, now, ha-ha, get back out there! “) but became a little more stern as they starting coming off more often. And when the actual 20-minute scrimmage started, it got really obnoxious.

See, there were mostly fine with drills. But when other kids tried to take the ball away from them or blocked their shots, holy shit, that was not cool with our children.

“They won’t pass the ball to me!”

“They’re faster than me!”

“He kicked the ball away from me!”

And so on. Clearly, they didn’t understand the “competitive” part of competitive sports. And it didn’t help that there were a couple of older boys who were both serious about playing and had some skills (for 6-year-olds). One kid in particular loved to come running at whoever had the ball and take a sliding kick to knock it away. He did this to Lily at least twice. “Lily would be having a better time,” I remarked to The Scientist, “If fucking Pelé would relax.”

It was at this point that they really started to whine and cry. Now, The Scientist and I were really trying hard not to be those asshole parents you see on the sidelines berating their kids. However, we didn’t want them to outright quit without trying either. “Come on girls, get out there. Your team needs you!” I tried this one several times. “Only 10 more minutes, girls! Try to tough it out for 10 more minutes!” I tried that, too. Finally, it came to: “Lily! Macey! Go!” This in my dad big voice.

I started to feel like a big dick, commanding my whining and crying kids back to the field. But I’ve seen this behavior before, especially in Lily. If things don’t go her way right away, her first reaction is to take her ball and go home. I hate this. So, yes, I made her play.

Well, I couldn’t make her play, of course. What I made her do was stand on the field. And both girls did this… stood in the field sniffling, making only token efforts to kick at the ball if it happened to come near them. When the final whistle finally blew, both girls couldn’t get off the field fast enough.

Thus began eight weeks of suck.

Most every week, it was the same. They'd complain that they didn't want to go to soccer, that it wasn't fun. When we got there, they'd have fun the first half of the practice, then the wheels would fall off when it came to the game.

One day it started to rain, hard, just as we pulled up. "Well, girls, it looks like soccer is going to be cancelled for today." Huge cheers from both girls.

I was very, very tempted to just pull the plug, tell them they didn't have to go any more. But the thing is that the eight week session was already paid for and, more importantly, it was the principle of the thing. They needed to learn that not everything is fun right off the bat, especially anything involving competition. And they needed to know that there are things you need to practice before you have any skill in them.

So we kept going.

The big complaint became that they got tired in the middle of practice. So I started to bring "energy pills." Let me explain.

A year or so ago, Lily got into the habit of saying that her stomach hurt her every night at bedtime. We didn't really believe her (it was clearly a stall tactic) but we starting giving her a single Rolaid. She ate it, said her tummy didn't bother her any more, and went to bed. But, we started to feel weird about doing this... Rolaids are a kind of medicine, albeit a weak medicine. Still, there was no reason to dose our kids (because Macey got in on the act, too) every night for no reason.

So, I bought a bunch of candy bracelets at the store and cut the strings. I took the candy and put it in a plastic tub, and told the girls this was the new tummy medicine. So, one "tummy pill" a night, and all was well. At some point we stopped calling it tummy medicine and started calling it tummy candy, just so there would no confusion about when medicine was, and when it was okay to take it.

This candy became our de facto cure for just about everything. Tummy hurts? Here's a tummy candy pill. Eyes itchy? Here's an itchy eye pill. And so on. So, when the complaining about being tired at soccer practice hit a fever pitch, I broke out the energy pills. The girls were allowed five a day (since they were so strong). I don't know where as it really helped. But it did give me an excuse to send them back out on the field; "You had your energy pills, now get back out there!" I was waiting for some other parent to chide me for giving my kids speed, but they never did.

We missed a couple weeks, due to vacation. The girls didn't mind. Then finally, the eighth and last practice rolled around. We told the girls that this was it, the last hour of soccer, and they needed to play today, but never had to play soccer again in their lives if they didn't want to.

Amazingly, Lily had the best day out of the eight. She was engaged, active, drove the field a couple times, and generally seemed to be having a good time. She didn't come off the field crying once.

Macey, on the other hand, was having a melt down. She stomped around, head hung low, complaining about how tired she was, so very tired. As it turned out, the red team was split into two, with Lily going with the older kids to a different field, and Macey and the younger ones staying where they were. Even with the level of competition reduced, Macey wasn't having it.

Finally, The Scientist pulled her off and promised that if she kicked the ball once, just once, that we'd all go to McDonalds for lunch. So she gave the ball a half-hearted kick when it rolled right to her, looked at us to confirm that that kick was good enough, then called it a day. Even though the game wasn't over, she ran over to the field Lily was on and started screaming, "Lily! Lily! Come on! Mama says we can go to McDonalds now!" She was none to happy to learn that we weren't going that instant.

At the end, all the kids gathered and they passed out trophies. Everyone got one, it was part of the fee. It was nice, I suppose, and the girls were happy to get something, but, I dunno, it just doesn't seem to send the right message.

I mean, my kids barely participated. I'm not saying they should be punished for this, but I don't think they should be rewarded, either. And get a trophy? For what? Showing up six of the eight weeks and half-assing it around the field? Maybe I'm just a prick, but effectively telling all these kids that the slightest effort on your part will score you a trophy isn't the best message. Eh, maybe at this age it's only about encouraging them to stick with it. I'm no coach.

I talked to Lily afterward, and told her how proud I was that she stuck it out, and how cool it was that she really seemed to be getting the hand of it this practice. She agreed that it was better this time, more fun.

ME: Fun enough that you might want to do it again next summer?
LILY: (immediately) No!

So, my kids have their cheap plastic trophies, and that seems good enough for them. They're well on their way to becoming nerds, just like their parents.

#273 In which our hero writes his yearly letter to his dead father.

Dear Dad,

Yesterday was Father’s Day. The Scientist had to work, and I had a bunch of stuff to do around the house, so it wasn’t exactly the most festive Father’s Day ever… but I did spend a bunch of time hanging out with the girls.

I am sometimes amazed at how much of me I see in them. Lily looks like me, so there’s no denying parentage there. But more so, she acts like me. She’s timid around strangers, until she warms up to them. She’s sometimes nervous to try new things, and frets about how things will happen, who will be there, if anyone will talk to her, and so on. She’s quick to feel wronged, and have her feelings hurt. She’s emotional and sensitive.

All like me.

Macey acts like me, too, but in a completely different way. She’s pig-headed and quick to anger. She’s more likely to lash out then cry when wronged. She likes to get her own way, and woe be to the person in her way.

This is kinda like me, too. Maybe more like her mother, though.

So it had me thinking of how I’m like you. I know there’s a physical resemblance, because people have remarked on it. I am balding now, just like you did. But more than looks, I think I act like you.

I remember how much you hated unexpected delays and hassles. And how quick you were to get angry about them. I’m like that, too; even though I’ve made a concerted effort to be more mellow, to try to just go with the flow and not let it ruin the day. I’ve been somewhat successful in that endeavor.

But on a more positive note, I have your sense of humor. I’ve always been the “funny friend,” which is a blessing and a curse, I suppose. But I laugh a lot, and the fact that my wife can make me laugh—HARD—is proof positive that I’ve married the right woman.

Mom sometimes slips and calls me “Ted,” which means she sees you in me as well. You’ve shaped me in ways that I can’t even imagine. And if I ever have cause to doubt that, I need only look at my watch.

I wear my watch with the strap on the top of my wrist, and the numerals facing down. I’ve never really given it much thought as to why, this is just how I wear my watch. To me it’s just like the fact that I wash my left armpit in the shower before my right… it’s not a conscious decision I’ve made, it’s just something I do, and have always done.

However… this isn’t really the case. I recently came across a newspaper clipping from when I had won some sort of drawing contest when I was 10. In it, there’s a photo of me holding the winning drawing, and you can clearly see my watch. It’s an oversized black plastic deal with, God help me, a built-in calculator. But I’m wearing it with the face on the top of my wrist, like almost everyone does.

You always wore you watch “upside down,” like I do now. I remember asking you about it once, and you told me that you did that because in college you didn’t want to be constantly reminded of the time, so you flipped your watch around so you couldn’t see it as easily.

I’ve also had people tell me that this is a workman’s way of wearing a watch; presumably so the breakable bits were further away from harm for those who work with their hands all day. I guess you could say that I work with my hands, if typing counts. Actually, my watch face is more scratched up from clinking on the wrist rest then it would be if I wore my watch the “normal” way.

I look at 10-year-old me and see that I did make a decision about my watch at some point. And that decision was to wear my watch like my dad did. Just one more way that I’m like you.

And I wonder what little things the girls will pick up from me. The way they brush their teeth? Tie their shoes? Ride a bike? I hope I can continue to be a mostly good example to them. Like you were for me. I miss you, dad.

Your son,

Craig.

***

#272 In which our hero receives a message from the past.

I’ve previously mentioned this cool website, Futureme.org, in which you can send messages to yourself in the “future,” that is, these messages are stored somewhere and not delivered until the future date you set.

I had sent future-me a message at one point, but I forgot how long I set it to wait. Every once in a while this website would bubble up to the surface of my mind and I’d wonder if that message would ever come. But it had been so long I assumed the service just didn’t work.

But I got my past message yesterday!

I had completely forgotten what I had written, and it was really funny to (re)read. Message follows with commentary.

Hello Future Craig!

It is June 10, 2004 as I write this. The kinda cool website futureme.org says it will send this to you any time in the future... I'm going to set it for five years. I wonder what'll be different by then.

Right now, Lily is only seven months old. Just in the past week has she started to really crawl, she can get around now! By the time you read this she should be walking and talking (something she can't do at all now), and will be even more a real little person. I hope to God she finally grew some hair.

Wow, it’s amazing how little I knew about kids then. I though she’d be walking and talking at age 5? Holy crap, this kid can run like a demon. And talk? She spins these amazingly elaborate tales that never fail to surprise and delight me. She’s so much more of a real person at age 5 that I could ever of imagined.

And it’s hard to remember that it took Lily so long to grow hair. Now she has thick, luxurious red hair halfway down her back.

You're working at ADPRO right now... it's not terrible.

Well, it certainly got terrible. This would have been my first year there, and it was, as reported, okay. Not terrible, not wonderful. That would come later. As an aside, I’m going to censor some of the names that follow, but I don’t have to obscure the agency name since it went out of business less than a year after firing me. No real surprise there… it was struggling financing well before I started working there.

Your boss is XXXX XXXXXXX, who isn't a horrible boss, but he's clearly out to cover his own ass first, and screw everyone else. At the beginning of the month you were turned down for a raise, even though XXXX (says he) wanted to give you one. You're still more than a little bitter about that.

This was the first sign that ADPRO was not a healthy place to work. My boss outright lied about compensation, making it sound like it was likely that I would get a raise at 6 months, 12 months, 18 months… while the truth was that no one in the agency had received a bump in compensation in YEARS. So yeah, I was bitter… and still am. This is alleviated somewhat by the information I received a while back that my former boss is now working for an extremely small shop (like 5 people) and the two principals work him into the ground and don’t appreciate his work. This may or may not be true, but I choose to believe that he’s getting a taste of his own medicine now.

You work with XXXX XXXXXXX and XXXXX XXXXXXXX, graphic designers.

The first of which was fired four months before me, the second of which quit several months after me. I’m not in touch with either any more.

AE XXXX XXXXX is one of the bigger assholes you've ever had to work with.

Man, that was the truth. In a weird twist of fate, this guy came in to interview at my current agency. I really wanted to run to the general manager and torpedo any chance he had to actually getting hired… but I didn’t. I guess I believe that what comes around goes around, and I’m not willing to roll those dice. Man that guy was a dick. He wasn’t hired here anyway.

You and [The Scientist] and just starting to pack up the house in preparation to moving. Actually, [The Scientist] has started, and you're dragging your feet because you fucking hate moving. I hope you guys found a nice house... bigger, nicer room for Lily, bigger kitchen, PLEASE.

This must have been when we were just moving stuff into a storage area to de-clutter it and make it feel bigger. We ended up selling our house much quicker than expected, and had to scramble a bit to find a new one. Which we did in short order. But not without first having to deal with a bunch of bullshit which is chronicled here.

And a bedroom for Lily's new brother or sister? S/he should be born by now, huh? Wonder how that went. Another C-section for [The Scientist]? I hope it was less stressful for you guys this time.

Let me do the math. This was sent June 10, 2004. Macey was born June 9, 2005. So, The Scientist wasn’t even pregnant yet, by a couple of months. I don’t really remember this, but The Scientist and I must have planned when we were going to try for #2 pretty carefully.

[The Scientist] just started the job at XXXXXXXX. Knowing her, she'll be at this job for 10 years. I hope she still likes it... after hating her job for so long, she deserves one that she likes at least a little.

She still likes it. So, yah!

You're still driving the Neon. I really hope by the time you read this that you have a new car.

Ah, my old red Neon. How I loved that car. I really wanted to get another manual, but The Scientist insisted that I get an automatic. Which has worked out for the best, I suppose. But I miss that zippy little 5-speed.

You love your wife very much. Looks like[REDACTED].

This section detailed some personal stuff that my wife and I had to work through which you--nameless, faceless Internet--need not know about. Suffice it to say that we did indeed work it out.

Man, she's one hot piece of ass.

That sentiment is no less true now than it was five years ago.

Hope all is well with you and yours,

craig, circa 2004.

The Scientist thinks I should write another one. If I set if for another five years, that would make Lily 10 and Macey 9. I can’t even imagine what those kids will be like then. And The Scientist and I will have been married 13 years.

Here’s hoping that her ass remains as hot as it is now.

***

#271 In which our hero discusses the manner in which the man decides if his oldest child is fit for school or not.

Several weeks ago my 5-year-old, Lily, was evaluated for acceptance into Kindergarten. We were briefed on this evaluation at the mandatory parents' meeting (along with dress code, religious requirements--it's a Catholic school, after all--etc.). We were to drop off our kids at the scheduled time, then leave. They would be tested in 10 areas.

A brief aside about language.

At the meeting, the principal told us several times not to refer to this evaluation as a "test" because he didn't want our children to be apprehensive about it. He said to just tell our kids that they would be playing some "games." Again, he didn't want a bunch of 5-year-olds freaking out about a "test." Now, what kind of anal, too-tightly-wound child is experiencing test anxiety at five? I know my kid has never been tested for anything so far, and even if she had, I'm pretty sure she wouldn't care if she passed or not.

It just strikes me as a self-fulfilling prophesy when you start talking like this. "Don't call it a test, they're freak out if they think they're being 'tested'!" Instead of avoiding "scary" words like test, why not just teach your kid to deal? "Look, Jimmy, it's a test, and you might do well on it or not. But even if you blow it, it's not a huge deal. You'll face LOTS of tests in your life."

Anyway.

The kids would be evaluated in 10 areas, the results being grouped into three categories: Strength, Average and Need. If you kid shows a "need" in four or more areas, you're supposed to sit down with the kindergarten teachers and principal and devise a plan. I kinda think this means that if your kid is struggling in four or more areas, you might not be invited to attend this particular school.

So, Lily has her test and it's no big deal. She says she had fun for the most part, but some of the games were boring.

Couple of weeks later, we get the official letter from the school. It doesn't say she "passed" because, presumably, that would put undo pressure on the administrators or some such shit. But it is a "welcome to" letter, so my kid is in!

Here are the categories Lily was tested in, and the results (I've included some of the definitions that were included with the letter because, frankly, if I hadn't read some of them I wouldn't know what my kid was tested for):

Visual Motor Integration ("the ability to coordinate vision with motor movements")
Result = STRENGTH!

Visual discrimination ("ability to recognize differences and similarities among things that we see")
Result = STRENGTH!

Auditory Memory ("refers to how well one listen and is then able to repeat what he has heard")
Yeah, that should be "how well one listenS" and also, nice sexism, school board!
Result = Average

Draw-A-Person ("used to help assess visual-motor ability along with visual-memory")
Result = STRENGTH!

Test of Auditory Analysis Skills ("refers to hearing sounds and auditoraly discriminating individual sounds within words")
I think when I was a kid this was called "listening."
Result = STRENGTH!

Peabody Picture Vocabulary ("refers to one's understanding of words that are heard")
Why does this one get a brand name? Who's this Peabody, anyway?
Result = STRENGTH!

Articulation ("ability to express thoughts and ideas.")
Result = Average
"Average"? Holy crap... anyone who spends more than a couple minutes with my daughter knows she has NO trouble expressing her thoughts. In fact, after a while, you might wish she'd STOP expressing her crazy, creative, endless thoughts.

Fine Motor ("ability to plan and perform movement using small muscles of the hands and/or fingers)
Result = Average
Again, maybe I'm just the doting father, but you wouldn't believe the detailed little clay creations this kid has made.

Basic Concepts ("major ideas, generalized from particular instances or experiences")
Result = Average
I'm not even sure what this category is telling me. Additional examples make it seem to relate to colors, letters, numbers, shapes and the like. And if that's the case, my kid has it down. She knows all of her colors, shapes, numbers and the like.

And that's the entire test. I'm clearly biased, but I suspect that Lily just got bored of all the questions and started to slack off. I've seen this before.

But, we'll see how she does in Kindergarten. I'm sure she'll do great. As long as no-one mentions the word "test."

***

#268 In which our hero thinks about his oldest daughter, and how she continues to grow up.

Today my oldest, Lily was evaluated for Kindergarten.

Today is the 10^th anniversary of the Columbine shootings.

Today, I’ve been thinking a lot about these two things. It’s just a coincidence, of course… one has no relation to the other. But I think about Lily, my silly, sensitive, giggly child and how she’ll be in school this fall. Real school, not day care. It’s a big thing, a sure sign that she’s getting older. My days of being her favorite playmate are numbered. And as frustrating as it can be to listen to her whine, “Daddy, play with me! Play with me!” when all I want to do is sit and read the paper for a damn minute, it makes me a little sad to think that there will come a day when she won’t say that any more. Soon enough she’ll want to play with her real friends, and won’t have time for me. She might even be embarrassed by me, at least in public. My hope is that this embarrassment is only in public; the day she starts being embarrassed to be around me even in the privacy of our own home… well, that will be heartbreaking.

At this kindergarten they have a big lunch room, where all the grades eat at the same time. I can’t imagine my little girl collecting her tray and sitting at a table with her friends, eating and chatting. She’s so little yet! And, of course, I worry that no-one will want to sit next to her, will want to be her lunch buddy. I worry that other kids will be mean to her, make her cry. I want to protect her from all of that.

But I can’t. And whatever she faces in kindergarten or elementary school will be nothing compared to what’s to come in middle school and, yikes, high school. She’s so emotional now, so sensitive. She gets her feelings hurt if I tell her that whatever I’m doing at the moment is more important than playing with her. How can she possibly survive high school?

I’m speaking metaphorically, of course… but 10 years ago today, a lot of parents where not.

As a parent I can’t help but put myself in the position of those parents who stood outside a high school building in Colorado for four hours, waiting to see if one of the dead was their child. How can you possibly endure such a thing?

The world we live in seems so ruthless, so dangerous. It seems foolhardy at best and criminal at worst, to send your children out into it unprotected. But that’s what we have to do. The alternative is to have a woefully sheltered, backwards kid… and I’ve seen kids like that. It’s not desirable.

In our living room we have an old green chair. Since we rarely use the living room, it’s almost never sat in. In fact, it is used much more often as a ladder to get to the Playskool slide that sits next to it. However, whenever Lily is really upset about something, something we can’t talk out, I’ll scoop her up and sit in the green chair and just let her cry. It’s become shorthand in our house. “Honey, are you really upset? Do you want to go sit in the green chair?”

Usually a good cry in the green chair will set things right, or at least help Lily get over the worst of it. This probably helps me was much as my daughter, because when I’m powerless to help her, when I can’t fix the problem, I can still let her sit in my lap on the green chair and cry.

But Lily’s problems today are that her sister broke her favorite toy, or that she didn’t get to watch the TV show she wanted, or that there wasn’t any more lemonade or countless other things that seem so minor to me that I have to remind myself that they matter to a five-year-old in a way I can no longer understand.

But, the day will come when the problems are that the boy she likes doesn’t like her, or that she doesn’t have a date to the prom or that her best friend’s parents are getting divorced or who knows what else. Big problems. Problems that even 40-year-old me (or more like 55 by then) can understand.

And I won’t be able to scoop her up and take her to the green chair any more. And even if I could, she probably wouldn’t want me to. She’ll be on her own to face the big bad world.

And when she’s even older yet, and living on her own? How can I know she’s safe if I don’t see her every night? How do parents deal with that? I suppose, like most things, it becomes easier the more often it happens.

But how do you deal when something unimaginable happens, like Columbine? Waiting outside in the cold, hoping for the best, fearing the worst? Twelve kids died that day. And none of their parents thought anything about them going off to school. Assumed they would be safe and that they’d see them for dinner that evening.

How do you go on if your kid doesn’t come home for dinner and is never coming home for dinner ever again? How do you get over that grief?

I have to think that you’d have to sit in the green chair for a long, long time.

###

DAUGHTER FODDER

One reason I love my youngest child:

Last week Macey went upstairs to use the potty. She’s been doing this lately… she seems to like the upstairs bathroom better than the downstairs one. I don’t really know why. Regardless, she had been gone for some time, so I called up to her and asked what she was doing. I couldn’t make out her reply so I went upstairs.

ME: What’s going on up here?
MACEY: I pooped, and my poop stinked, so I gave it a courtesy flush.
ME: A what?!
MACEY: A courtesy flush!

Don’t ask me where she got the concept of a “courtesy flush.” But I totally believe her that it was justified.

One reason I love my oldest child:

Couple of weeks ago at dinner time, Lily, out of the blue, turns to me and says, “Daddy, tell me everything you know about vampires.”

I laughed out loud, because there was an edge of urgency to her voice, like she knew something I didn’t know.

So, I spent the next five minutes telling her about vampires. I started with the obvious stuff: they have pointed teeth, they drink blood instead of eating food, they burn up in sunlight, you have to put a stake (“What’s a stake?” “It’s a big pointed stick”) through their hearts to kill them, they can turn into bats and wolves and mist (“What’s mist?” “Like fog?” “Oh, okay”), they sleep in coffins…

Every time I paused, Lily would say, “Daddy, keep telling me about vampires.”

I had to really dig deep to think of what else I knew about vampires. They can’t cross running water (right? I think I read that somewhere), um… I seemed to remember that to be sure they were dead you had to cut their heads off and fill their mouths with communion wafers--but I keep this bit of knowledge to myself. I mentioned that Nosferatu was one of the first vampires (in the movies, at least)… both girls are familiar with Nosferatu because he makes a cameo appearance in a SpongeBob SquarePants episode (yeah, really).

And that’s why, an hour later when The Scientist came home from the barn, the entire family was sitting around the computer watching Nosferatu clips on YouTube.

###

WIFE STRIFE

The other day The Scientist was in a mood. Which affected me only slightly, being that I was leaving to go do something or other.

THE SCIENTIST: Man, I am pissed off.
ME: Why? What happened?
TS: Nothing that I can think of… I’m just in a mood. I mean, I am pissed!
ME: Okay.
TS: Seriously, I am not fit to be around people right now.
ME: Well, you know I still need to go out, right?
TS: Yes, yes, that’s fine.
ME: Don’t murder the children or anything, okay?

An hour later, I got this text:

Oh no! What happened?!

Dear God! What have you done? What have you done!

Nooooo---!!!

So yes, an evening of murder/suicide. Or was it... the little feet in the final photo are a little ominous, don't you think?

###

#265 In which our hero writes his daughters a letter regarding the day things changed.

Dear Lily & Macey,

Earlier today I witnessed the inauguration of the 44^th President of the United States. Barack Obama has been president for almost 11 hours. Now, by “witnessed,” I mean I watched it on TV… there were more than two million people actually there in the streets of D.C., a crowded, cold environment that I had no desire to be part of. That said, it was amazing to watch. So many people wanted to be there because it was a big event. Perhaps, one of the biggest that I’ll ever witness.

You’re only five- and three-years-old, respectively, right now, so the importance of this event is wholly lost on you. And, God willing, it will always be lost on you. That is to say, when you’re old enough to care about such things, having a black president hopefully won’t be anything special.

But right now, it is special. Because America, the wonderful, exciting, forward-looking country that she is, is also pretty backwards in many ways. Like our puritan attitudes about sex, or our constant meddling with other cultures, to name two examples. Sadly, these are things that I don’t expect to have changed when you’re older.

But today… today we, as a country, seemed to turn a corner. We did something that many people thought to be unattainable: we elected a black man to the highest office in the nation. That’s a big deal. Because that means a lot of people voted for the guy; actually, more people voted for him that any other presidential candidate in history. Black and white alike. I voted for him, and so did your mother.

Now, his landslide win was certainly assisted by the horrific situation that the past president put the country into. George W. Bush will be judged, I believe, to be one of the worst presidents in history. Not in modern history, but in all American history. I could rant and rave about him, but I won’t. Not right now, at least. When you’re covering the modern history unit in school, I’ll give you girls an earful.

I find it difficult to articulate the… hopelessness… I’ve felt over the past eight years. It seemed not a day went by that I didn’t look at the people around me and feel like a stranger in my own country. I was in the minority, an outsider. I didn’t think like most other people in the country. Frankly, I just didn’t get it how people could vote for a man like Bush, and then do it again four years later.

But now, with Obama in office, I feel like I belong again. It’s a little self-serving, but I feel like all those dense people finally figured it out, finally pieced together how they needed to vote for something new, something different to get the country out of the mess its in now. And man, what a mess it is.

The economy is in the dumper. Homes are being foreclosed left and right. We’re still mired in pointless wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Banks are failing. People are watching helplessly as their 401Ks spiral down the drain. It’s a bad time. A scary time.

And you girls, thank God, are oblivious to the whole thing.

I really wonder how your views of the presidency will be shaped by the Obama administration. If he serves for two terms (and at this instant it seems unthinkable that he wouldn’t win a second term) that means you girls will be 13 and 11 when he steps down. The only president you’ll ever have known in that time will have been a black guy. That’s amazing to me.

Now, I don’t expect Obama to save the world. I hope he can start moving this country back toward prosperity but, frankly, I’m not too hopeful of that, either. The country will recover… probably more slowly and painfully than anyone wants, but we’ll get there.

What I am hopeful is that America can once again regain her standing as a noble, respected world power.

The last eight years have sucked. Not every part of them, of course. I mean, both you girls were born, which is a wonderful, wonderful thing. However, at times things seemed so dark that I questioned the wisdom of bringing in a child (or two) into such a shitty world.

I want the world for you girls. I want you to achieve everything you set your hearts on. And now, as we near the end of the very first day of Barack Obama’s time as our 44^th president, things feel different, better. I’m filled with something that I haven’t felt in far too long: hope.

Hope for the future of the country. Hope for the future of our family. Hope that you girls, you silly, rambunctious, sometimes frustrating girls, will have a future of happiness and prosperity.

Love,

Daddy.

###

#264 In which our hero is just trying to get through the end of the year.

I am done with 2008.

As we entered the ass-end of the year just about everything became, fittingly enough, shitty.

I turned 40. More on that in later posts. But bigger than that was The Scientist’s looming surgery. You can read all the gory details starting here, but be warned, it’s all about stuff south of the border. And while thinking about my wife’s ass is generally a pleasurable experience, this is anything but.

There was also Christmas shopping which, once again, I promised myself I’d jump on early but, once again, did not. It was a very gift cardy Christmas for my family; which always makes me feel like I made no effort. I guess my sisters actually get to buy whatever they really want, and that’s a good thing, but it seems so lazy.

So, anyway, The Scientist had her surgery and, contrary to all her/my fears ahead of time, went pretty smoothly. Well, if you can call unexpectedly finding a grapefruit sized ovarian cyst smooth. But I guess it could have been a whole lot worse… if the cyst wasn’t found, then she’d have to have surgery all over again, and that would SUCK. But, that’s not the real problem, of course. The real problem, of course, is the butt.

For the first two days all was good. No real pain down there, meds were working, hunky-dory. Then, just about the time The Scientist had a couple of real poops, everything whet to hell. She was in a lot of pain. And not just while she was sitting on the pot, but all the time. The Vicodin constipated her a bit, so she stopped taking it. Instead she took Klonpin, which made her sleepy, but didn’t really touch the pain. She took lots of Motrin which, as it always does, roaches her stomach and makes her feel nauseous. Which all goes back to the puke thing and anxiety and holy shit this year cannot end fast enough.

Christmas day was nice. The girls got lots of good stuff. They seemed satisfied, and there was no belly-aching about not getting what they wanted--which, if you listened to Lily while she watched Cartoon Network commercials, was everything. Lily’s big gift was a Leapster hand-held, which she adored.

Then, a day later, the Leapster’s display stopped working. Customer service instructed us to send it back to Amazon for a replacement. Amazon, in turn, told us they don’t stock that particular hand-held any longer, so they could only refund our money. Then I started to run a low-grade fever, and was still coughing up green glue from my lungs; the antibiotics I was on be damned!

Then mom went home and I was left to entertain these rambunctious children all on my own. Which normally isn’t a problem, but when I was feeling crappy, it was a little challenging.

The house quickly feel into a Lord of the Flies condition.

I tired to keep up with laundry and dishes general keeping shit picked up while answering the every-five-minute calls of “Daddy! Can you help me?” “Daddy, what’s this do?” “Daddy, come look at this!” Oh, and this was also about the time that a tree limb fell in our back yard, knocking our cable/high-speed Internet line off the pole. So no TV or on-line games, my two biggest hold-outs to entertain these children.

And all was going on while I was reassuring The Scientist that all was well, and she needed to stay in bed. It was taxing.

And while this all sounds very ha-ha-stupid-husband-can’t-deal-with-a-little-housework TV sitcom bullshit, the real issue was that my wife was in pain. A lot of pain.

The meds she was on weren’t really doing it, and she was in constant pain all day long. I tired to do what I could but, really, this was nothing I could do. I ran out and got her prune juice and fiber cereal and dried cranberries and Slurpees, but they did nothing at all to really ease her pain.

And that just about brings us up to date. Couple of days ago I woke up at midnight to hear my wife softly weeping next to me in bed. It was heartbreaking. I didn’t have anyone to get pissed at, anyone to demand relief from.

Her first follow-up appointment was with her OBGYN, and I gotta tell you, as the only other man that views my wife's vagina on a regular basis, I like him a lot. He is all business. When he finished with the ablasion, he came out into the waiting room, talked me through what he had done, showed me pictures, explained the entire cyst thing and asked if I had any questions. Total pro. So, anyway, during the follow-up appointment with him, The Scientist mentioned how much pain she was in, and basically how much life sucked, and he told her to find her butt doctor and demand to be seen. Immediately. Fucking-A. This guy's on the right page.

So, she took his advice. The following day, when she knew her doctor would be in the building during surgeries, she came to work, put on scrubs, and confronted her outside the operating theater. Well, confronted is a strong word (that's what I would have done, as in, "Hey, I call your nurse, I page you and you blow me off? What the fuck?!") it was more like she firmly asked to be seen. And she was. Immediately. Which is good.

So, bottom line (for now) is that everything looks fine. She's in pain, especially pooping pain, but that's kinda the deal with this type of surgery. And actually, The Scientist says that it seems to have tapered off a little today. So maybe we're turning a corner. I hope so.

It would be great to start the new year with smiles, and not tears.

###

#263 In which our hero takes his oldest to visit an old familiar chair.

In about 20 minutes I’m going to go pick up Lily and head to the dentist. Last week both girls had their six month check-up; which is actually only the second time they’ve ever been to the dentist. Our pediatrician recommended that we start taking Lily to the dentist around age three… but we never did. Not that we were avoiding it, we just never got around to it. And we’re religious about brushing their teeth twice a day, so we weren’t too worried about it. Plus, The Scientist has never had a cavity in her life, so I’m hoping that this uber-enamel has been passed down to our kids.

I had horrible teeth as a kid. Well, that is to say, I had a mouth full of cavities, completely due to my piss-poor brushing habits. I would wet my toothbrush and basically swipe it across my teeth once, and call it done. Dad would even joke about it, calling me “the fastest tooth-brusher in the west.” Dad had complete dentures by the time he was 35, so clearly outstanding oral health wasn’t his top priority.

But I really want to spare my kids the pain of cavities--the pain I'd experienced so often as a kid--so we’ve tried to instill the importance of brushing their teeth. The five fillings in my molars are a great visual aid. And, of course, good oral health also includes going to the dentist, so we finally got off our asses and had our kids teeth looked at a year ago.

They were really good about it… no fussy or freaking out. In fact, they seemed very interested in the process. Which is fantastic… no need to develop a fear of the dentist now.

And there were no cavities! Each kid got to enter their name into the “no cavity club contest” where they could win something or other.

I was so proud.

Flash-forward six months to the check-up last week. Macey was fine, no cavities. But Lily… Lily had a cavity! Right in her farthest back molar! Dammit! That’s the hardest tooth to reach!

And, unfortunately, this isn’t a baby tooth that’s soon to fall out; she’s going to hold on to this one until she’s about 11. So you know what that means. A FILLING.

So that’s where we’re going in this afternoon. I’m really hoping it’s not a horrible experience. I mean, I can’t imagine it’s fun for anyone to get a filling (well, expect this guy) but I’m just hoping there’s not a lot of screaming and crying. The Scientist made it clear early on that there was no way she could witness her child under the drill, and that I’d have to step up.

Here’s hoping for the best.

###

POOP SCOOP

I suppose no-one is really 100% prepared to be a parent before they actually are. But I'm still surprised by some of the things I've had to do in this job. For example:

There was a recent shigellosis outbreak at the daycare. Now, I don't know if "outbreak" is really the right word, but apparently a kid or two came down with this thing, so the daycare decided to aggressively tackle it. I guess it is a serious illness, in that it causes severe diarrhea. This is mostly an issue for toddlers, and our kids never got sick at all, but we still had them tested.

Oh yes, the test.

The daycare sent the girls home with two plastic vials and instructions on how to fill them up. It was rather ingenious, if disgusting. The plastic cap had an attached spoon with a serrated edge. The deal was that you took some of your kids poop, scooped it into the vial with the spoon, sealed it up (tightly!) and shook it so whatever chemical was in the vial would mix with the poop. Then the health department comes to the school to collect these poop vials and have them tested. I suppose the one consolation is that I don't have the job of opening a couple dozen vials of poop in a lab somewhere.

Anyway, we told the kids we needed to collect their poop, and to do this they needed to poop into a bag. They were, of course, delighted by the prospect. So every time they felt the urge, one or both of them would start shouting, "Daddy! I have to poop! Get a bag! Get a bag!"

What followed was a farce of me trying to strategically position a plastic shopping bag under a tiny butt without dipping it into the toilet water. Of course, there were several false alarms and I ended up holding a bag full of farts.

Finally, Macey crapped into a bag, then I scooped the poop into the vial. This same kid just puked on me recently, so I've had the full spectrum of bodily fluids.

I should mention that The Scientist manged to miss the poop-scooping duties for BOTH kids. She claims it was innocent, but I think otherwise.

###

#258 In which our hero talks about bad times when dropping off the kids at school.

Being that The Scientist and I both work, Lily and Macey go to day care. It’s a good day care, with a good mix of kids, and our children seem to enjoy it and actually learn something while they’re there.

However, in the past couple of weeks, Lily has developed a real problem with drop off. As in, she cries and carries on, doesn’t want us to leave, and generally makes everyone miserable. This is heartbreaking for my wife, and a pain in the ass for me (oh, I feel bad, too) and we really didn’t understand the change. When asked, Lily claims that some of her schoolmates tease her or hit her… some of these tales are probably true to one degree or another, but nothing that would elicite this reaction.

We talked with the day care owner, who’s been watching our kids since, well, since before we had kids, and she thought that Lily was just playing to our sympathies, and hoping to get us to stick around for another 15 minutes or so. Which usually worked. So we worked out a plan.

We told Lily that she’d get ONE hug and ONE kiss from each of us, and then that would be it. She had to march into class without crying or having a fit. She was none too sure of this, and asked if she could practice. Um, sure? we thought. So, we pretended the living room was school, and we walked Lily (and Macey, who had to be in the thick of things, even though she wasn’t having any difficultly is seeing us off) into class, gave her her one hug and one kiss, and left.

As extra insurance, I wrote Lily a note on the back of an old business card. I told her that she could keep it in her pocket, and if she got sad during the day she could pull it out and look at it.


“Can you read it?” I asked.
“Yes!” Lily replied. “’Daddy plus Mommy loves Lily.’”
“That’s right, sweetie,” The Scientist said. “We do.”

And naturally, Macey had to have a note, too. But she insisted that both she and Lily appear on her note.


And the next day we dropped off, gave her the one hug and one kiss, reminded her to look at her note if she needed to, and that was that. No crying, no fuss, no bother.

I’m constantly amazed at how a little planning and preparation can make such a difference with these kids.

###

SMELL HELL

Lily calling me from the bathroom:

LILY: Daddy! Daddy!
ME: What is it?
LILY: Come here!
ME: (walking over to the bathroom) What's wrong, honey?
LILY: Daddy! You gotta smell this!

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy that Lily is potty trained. But I don't feel the need to experience the pooping with her, y'know?

PS: Blah, forgot to post yesterday. So much for NaBloPoMo.

###

#257 In which our hero desperately attempts to forget the goings-on of the past 24 hours.

Bad day, yesterday.

It started late Tuesday night. While The Scientist and I were still high from watching Obama’s resounding victory in the presidential election (aside to Ohio: thanks for not fucking this up) our three-year-old, Macey came into the bedroom. Earlier she told me that “I drank too much water” and I sat her on the potty, where she successfully peed. But now she was back for more. Which is her way… she seems to like to pee, then wait a half hour or so, then come back to poop. Which is fine; as long as everything is going in the potty and not her pants, I don’t care.

So I take her back into the bathroom and sit her on the potty. She sits there for a moment, then pukes, big-time. It hits the wall, it covers the floor; a significant amount covers my hands and arms. I’m a little slow in whipping her around to face the toilet, but much of the second round ends up in the bowl. And it’s a lot. Poor kid ate a big dinner, and here it was all coming back.

I strip her down and The Scientist takes her into the shower with her to clean her up. Now, this is amazing… that my wife is able to function in this situation. See, she has a puke phobia. She doesn’t like to see it, hear it or smell it. Watching it on TV is okay, I guess, but in person is right out. She’s warned me about this endlessly in the nearly 10 years we’ve been together, but it’s never really been an issue (baby spit-up didn’t seem to fall into the no-puke category). I knew she didn’t like it (who does?) but I wasn’t really clear on the extent to which she’s not okay with it--and wouldn’t be until the next morning.

Anyway, so The Scientist can take our kid into the shower--crossing over the puke zone--without incident, so I figured everything was okay. I mean, Macey wasn’t okay, clearly, but it was probably just a stomach bug and now that she threw up we were hoping the worst of it was over.

I cleaned up the puke in the bathroom, we got Macey all changed into clean jammies, and all seemed well. And all WAS well, until the next morning.

I got Macey out of bed, and she made some comment that she felt sick, and then she was. But I was ready with a basin, and her barf was completely contained. The Scientist came in and got clean clothes for her and we started the morning getting-ready-for-school routine. Then, the smell hit her or she saw it or something, but she sat down on the floor and said, “Craig! I’m not doing okay!”

I came back into the room and she was laying down saying, over and over, “I’m not doing okay! I’m not doing okay!” And I’m a little pissed because this is her stupid puke phobia, and there’s no real reason to be freaked out about puke, and little kids puke all the fucking time, so it’s dumb and you should really just get over it. But, I’m not a complete asshole, so I say, “What’s going on?”

And my wife doesn’t answer. So I repeat myself. “Hey! What’s going on?” She’s flat on her back, her arms in an awkward position, and she’s not saying anything. A little alarmed, I crouch down and give her a little shake. And she is as stiff as a board.

This is when I realize my wife is having a seizure.

Now, this should have been scary as hell but, honestly, The Scientist has spent much of the previous decade preparing me for this very moment.

Here’s the deal: when my wife was much younger, she went through a phase where she woke up unexpectedly, felt ill, had a seizure, passed out, woke up, and vomited. This pretty much scared the hell out of me when she first told me about it. Mostly, because for the first five years or so of our marriage she would wake up feeling a little sick, then wake me up so I could be there “in case I have another seizure.”

And I was all Joe Concerned at first… then it because apparent that she hadn’t really had a seizure in 10 years… then in 15 years… then in 20 years. And at this point I said, “Y’know, I don’t think you’re going to have another seizure any time soon. Can you please let me sleep through the night?” It’s possible I was a bit of a dick about this.

So when she went all stiff, I though “Well I’ll be goddamned, she really is having a seizure.” It lasted maybe 10 seconds or so, then her eyes rolled back in her head and she went limp. I grabbed another basin and waited for her to wake up. She recovered in about 20 seconds or so, confused. Then, true to form, she rolled over and started to heave.

The good news is that she didn’t have anything in her stomach, so she didn’t have anything to puke. The bad news is that the dry heaves suck for anyone, just recovering from a seizure or not.

So, she's heaving, and it occurs to me that I’ve never actually heard my wife puke. Well, she did puke after the horrible tattoo incident (I’ve written about that, right? I can’t seem to find anything about it in my archives) but that was fairly quick. Anyway, she heaving into the basin, and come to find out that she makes this funny noise when she’s puking. Kinda like “Uggghhh--hehk!” There's this odd little coda to her heave--and it strikes me as really funny. And I know I can’t laugh at her in this situation, so I try to stifle it. But my laugh pops out as a strangled little snort, which my wife misinterprets as me gagging.

So I just let her collapse on the floor, brought in a pillow and covered her up. She certainly wasn’t doing well, but she seemed stable.

Macey, on the other hand, was FULL of energy. Apparently the puking got out the last of whatever was bothering her, and she wanted to play, play, play! Naturally, I had to call The Scientist’s work and tell them she wasn’t going in (said she was sick, didn’t feel the need to add the seizure part) and I had to call my work and tell them I wasn’t coming in. Then I called the daycare and told them neither of the girls was coming in. Lily seemed fine, but we kept her home just to be safe.

And honestly, both girls were fine all day. They were actually overjoyed to get to stay at home and play with daddy. My wife was finally able to crawl into bed after a couple of hours. I set up the baby monitor next to the bed, and spent the next several hours running up and down the stairs to check on her, then to make sure the girls weren’t fighting. Plus I washed all the puke-covered stuff from Macey’s first round of vomiting.

The worst part of the seizure BS turns out to not be the seizure itself, but the after-effects. The Scientist was sore, but she was also nauseated and dizzy for hours afterward. Neither she nor Macey really ate anything all day. Well, Macey ate a couple freeze-pops, and The Scientist had a Slurpee.

All in all, it was inconvenient, but not horrible. The big fear, of course, is what if I’m out of town and one of the girls gets sick? That’s going to be a big problem. I think my wife would agree.

But that, like the previous 24 hours, is something I don’t want to think about right now.

###

#256 In which our hero discusses parenting methods, typically favoring the more hard-assed ones.

I’m not positive about this, but The Scientist and I might be, when it comes to parenting, what you could call “mean.” We’ve been called that by other adults (in jest--I think) and, much more often, by our children. We don’t think we’re mean, of course (mostly) but we would rather reckon ourselves “consistent.” As in, if we say something, that’s the way it’s going to be, and no amount of begging or screaming is going to change that.

Early on in the “let’s have some babies!” discussions, we both agreed that we needed to play it straight with our kids. No promising one thing, then doing something else. Or, more importantly, no promising to take away something, only to cave then they start to cry.

Our hope is that it will lead to better adjusted kids. Ones that are willing to give up the fight because they know that mommy and daddy aren’t going to go back on what they said. Theoretically (because this is very much an experiment in progress) it will lead to less screaming and fewer fights. But as of last night, the experiment hasn’t bourn fruit.

Here’s the deal.

Yesterday was Lily’s birthday (and I’ll write about that it all it’s glory later). It was a pretty low-key day, being that we hadn’t planned a big party, and The Scientist had to work, anyway. During the day I went to the grocery store with the girls.

A little aside. These grocery store trips used to be… not bad, or challenging, exactly, but just not a lot of fun. The girls would be bored halfway through, and Macey would want to get out of the cart, or get back in, or Lily would want to look at the candy, then pout when she didn’t get any, etc., etc. However! Now that both girls are potty trained (as I type this I must remember that both girls crapped their panties once in the past three days, so, maybe 99% potty trained) they can go into the most wonderful thing ever created in the history of grocery stores: the play room.

The Scientist and I were both a little iffy about the concept, in the beginning. It’s just a room where you can dump your kids while you shop. There’s a store employee there, and plenty of games and crafts and what-not. But we’re not dump-and-run sort of parents, so I, at least, wasn’t 100% sure of the concept. But, Lily got wind of all the new toys, and started asking to go in, and I finally relented one day.

Now, it’s awesome. The girls demand to go shopping with me, and they are, of course, perfectly fine in there for the 30 minutes or so it takes me to find everything on the list.

So, it’s Lily’s birthday and I drop the girls off at the playroom while I shop. I go to pick them up afterward, and the friendly attendant asks if they can both have a snack. So sure; both girls get a bag of chips and a juice box. So far, so good.

Then, it comes up that it’s Lily’s birthday, so again the friendly attendant says she can choose from the Birthday Box. Now, ever so faintly, a warning bell starting ringing in the back of my skull. But I ignored it.

A big plastic treasure chest is produced and opened, and Lily looks at the toys within. She chooses a stuffed frog. Macey tentatively reaches into the box. Of course, I say “No, Macey. Lily only gets a toy because it’s her birthday. Maybe we can come back on your birthday and you can get something from the Birthday Box.” Macey is disappointed, but simply says, “Okaaaay” in the cute fashion she does.

So. No big fight. No big meltdown.

I am patting myself on the back for being such an awesome parent, and secretly congratulating my kids for being so mature in front of the grocery store employee. As we’re putting on coats, Macey makes noise about wanting to hold Lily’s frog. Lily, who really is the sweetest kid on Earth, says they can play babysitter, and the frog can be her baby and Macey can be the babysitter. And she lets Macey hold the frog the whole way home.

Things started to go south pretty quickly from there.

Back at the house, Macey wanted to hold the frog even longer, and Lily started to get whiny that it was her frog, etc. And she’s right. So I tell Macey that it’s Lily’s birthday toy, and she let her hold it for a little big, but it’s really hers to play with, and hey! Look at all these other stuffed animals!

But Macey wasn’t having it.

As the night wore on, Macey’s demands for frog time intensified, and Lily decided that it was HER frog, and she didn’t want to share it at all. At bedtime, Macey wanted to sleep with the new frog, but naturally, Lily wanted to sleep with her new toy.

So, by 9pm, the house sounded like this:

Frogie! Frooooooogie! New froooooogeeeee! I wanna sleep with new froooooooog-eeeee!!!!
Frooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooogggggggg-eeeeeee!!!!!

Very pitiful.

These was no comforting her, or diverting her attention (I’m hoping this laser-like focus pays off with great SAT scores) and finally the only thing that calmed her down was allowing her to crawl into bed with her mother.

When I came to bed much later, she was completely sacked out.

Of course, all of this could have been avoided just by saying to the grocery store lady, “hey, y’mind if my youngest grabs something out of the box, too?” I’m sure this $5.15/hr. babysitter wouldn’t have cared.

But I didn’t. For the same reason that we don’t buy Lily gifts on Macey’s birthday, and vice versa. It sets a bad precedent. And we’re trying to keep our eyes on the prize: more level-headed kids in the future.

But, to our children, we’re big meanies.

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