JOKER HOAXER

Macey wants to know, why so serious?

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ART START

Lily likes to draw. And while she's only four, she sometimes busts out these drawings which I think are really good. Really good meaning that I can tell, more or less, what they're supposed to me.

Yesterday she was drawing and informed me that she was going to make some dinosaurs for me. This is the first one she drew:


Clearly, it's awesome. Our conversation when something like this:

ME: Wow, honey, that's great! Look at all the spikes on his back!
LILY: I know! He's very spikey.
ME: What's his name?
LILY: I don't know. You name him!
ME: How about "Spikeasurus"?
LILY: Yeah! I'm going to draw another!
ME: Great!

Then, about five minutes later, she brought me this:

ME: Wow, honey, that's... wow. That's something else.
LILY: He's very tall!
ME: Yeah, he sure is.
LILY: What's his name?
ME: Boy, I dunno. How about "Dongasurus"?
LILY: Yes! That's the perfect name, daddy!
ME: Sure it is. Go show that to your mama.

So yeah, remember me when you're filling out your ballot for father of the year.

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#239 In which our hero receives an unexpected letter regarding education and proposing a fun vacation destination.

We received a follow-up letter from the Christian school we toured a couple of weeks ago. We actually got it just two days later, meaning the principal must have written it that night or the next morning. Usually I’d assume it was boilerplate copy… but it’s clear that this letter was written specifically for us. It follows, with my commentary.

Thank you very much for coming last evening despite the bad weather. I admit your concerns abut creationism and evolution are the reverse of what we normally receive, but they are just as important as the others.

I’ll give this guy points for getting right to the matter at hand. I find it encouraging that our “concerns” about evolution (ie., your school teaches that it is a pack of lies) are the opposite of what people are usually worried about. Meaning that the typical parent is worried that evolution might be taught to their children. They actually fret that their children might be exposed to a well-established scientific theory. This just reinforces that fact that I don’t want my kids in this school. I mean, I don’t worry that my kids will be exposed to creationism or the verses in Genesis.

And does it strike you as a little passive-aggressive when he writes that our concerns are “just as important”? Like he’s saying, “Y’know, most people I told to understand the truth… but don’t worry, your misguided beliefs are just as valid. Sure they are.”

I agree that without God in the equation evolution is a viable answer.

I’m a little put off by this. We’re not atheists, and at no point did we express that God has no part to play in evolution. We weren’t advocating taking God out of the equation. And without flying into a rant, I have to comment that this is the kind of thing that annoys me most about fundamentalists: it’s all or nothing. You believe in God the way I believe in God or you are wrong.

Both creationists and evolutionists begin with same basic presuppositions that will support their case. Creationists begin with a literal belief of the Genesis account. Evolutionist begin without the supernatural being involved. While creationists differ on how God actually did the creating, especially how long ago and the time involved, they give him credit.

My problem with rejecting the Genesis account is how do we decide what part of the Bible we accept and what part we do not. Who decides what is symbolic and what is literal? There are accepted guidelines for these decisions in secular literature, and these rules of interpretation apply for Scripture also.

Oh boy.

He’s already made it clear that he believes the story of Genesis is to be taken literally--that is, the universe was created by God in six days. No more, no less. He knows this because it is written in the Bible. Then, in the paragraph above, he states that there are “accepted guidelines” for what passages in the Bible are to be taken literally (such as Genesis 2:2 “By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work.”) and what are NOT to be taken literally (such as, presumably, Leviticus 4:2-6 “2. … When anyone sins unintentionally and does what is forbidden in any of the Lord’s commands 3. … He must bring to the Lord a young bull without defect 4. … and slaughter it before the Lord. 5 Then the anointed priest shall take some of the bull's blood and carry it into the Tent of Meeting. 6. He is to dip his finger into the blood and sprinkle some of it seven times before the Lord, in front of the curtain of the sanctuary.”)

I want you to be comfortable with what we teach here. We do not require students or parents to believe as we do in many areas.

“Just the important ones.”

We serve over 40 different churches. We do stand on personal salvation through belief in Jesus’ death, burial and literal resurrection as payment for our sins. If you decide we are the best school for your family I would be glad to sit down with you and your husband to discuss this issue and others.

That would be an interesting meeting. We figure the best way to start it would be by explaining exactly what my wife does for a living. “As an embryologist, I help infertile couples have the baby of their dreams. Including lesbian couples.” I wonder if they’d still be so welcoming after that bombshell.

If you ever travel through Cincinnati I would recommend the Creation Museum. It is done by scientists, not just Christians. I have heard excellent reports on it.

Hol-lee crap. I realize that he’s making an attempt to use “science” to sway our decision, but man, he picked just about the most pathetic example he could. This “museum” has been thoroughly ridiculed by the scientific community as garbage. And it’s not hard to see why. A quick search about its contents revels that, among other things, it displays humans and dinosaurs living side-by-side, including displays which show: dinosaurs in the Garden of Eden; a Triceratops wearing a saddle; and a stegosaurus aboard Noah’s ark.

I would LOVE to go to see this train wreak in person, but certainly not for the reason that this guy thinks.

I realize your decision is a year away, but I want you to know I value your concerns.

I doubt that.

So, he’s done all due diligence in trying to secure two new fee-paying students and perhaps save the soul of their heathen parents. But, I’m afraid the search must continue.

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#238 In which our hero visits a school and has a very illuminating conversation with said school’s principal.

The Scientist and I took the girls to an open house last week. Since Lily is four (and a genius) we need to start thinking about where we’re going to send her to Kindergarten. We’re not real keen on sending her to public school, mostly because we’ve heard that the public schools around us aren’t the greatest. The high school is actually pretty good, but the lower grades appear to be basically day cares where the teachers spend most of their time wrangling children and not so much time actually teaching them anything.

Lily’s birthday is in November, which means we have to deal with that weird thing where she just misses the deadline to enroll. However, being that she really is a pretty smart kid, we thought that she might be able to test into a program and start school this fall. However, we’ve since learned that most schools are putting rules into place that actually prohibit them from taking kids who aren’t five years old by the deadline, no exceptions.

This, as it turns out, is a good thing. Because the open house did not go well.

Here’s the thing: considering the non-stellar reputation of public schools in our area, we want to send the girls to a private school. There are two private schools quite near us that are fan-fucking-tastic, but well out of our price range. So we’ve been looking at other schools, notably private religious schools. Now, it’s not that we really need our kids to have a healthy helping of God with their studies, we just want them to have the best education we can afford. And most private religious schools we’ve looked at have small class sizes (ie., great teacher/student ratios), good resources (ie., lots of computers in every classroom) and are actually affordable for us (ie., we don’t have to choose between education or electricity). And we’re not opposed to a religious atmosphere, so in theory we don’t have a problem with a Christian school.

Except for one thing.

Being that The Scientist is, well, a scientist, and I share her beliefs in a largely rational world, we’re both concerned about how science is taught in school. Evolution is the hot button of course.

A little rant here.

I think evolution takes an unfair amount of heat in the science vs. religious war. It is, I’ll admit, the one issue in which both sides seem to have a pretty decent (if rudimentary) understanding of the difference in view points--science (“The universe was created in the wake of the Big Bang, and Earth in particular formed over billions of years”) and religion (“The universe and Earth and everything therein were created by God over the course of seven days”).

I get the vibe that people think that if we could just agree to disagree on this one point, then we would get along just fine. But, to me, it’s more than that. It’s not just that I believe that the universe is billions of years old, it’s not that I believe that all life has common ancestors in our far, far history… it’s that I look at the world in a certain way. I believe that the world can be figured out, if you look carefully enough. I don’t believe anything “is because it is.” There are answers out there, you just have to know enough to ask the right questions. And while I believe that you can rely heavily on books to find your answers, you don’t have to be limited to one book in particular.

Anyway, back to school.

We went to this particular Christian Academy because it was recommended to us by our day care provider. She had heard good things about it, so we figured we’d give it a test drive.

It was a cold and icy night, so we were one of only half a dozen families who showed up. The teachers are generally there for these kind of things, but the administration had sent them home because of the weather. We were greeted at the door by the principal.

It quickly became apparent that the principal considered himself a funny guy. But, sadly, we was not.

While I appreciate a sense of humor, I’m not looking for a stand-up comedian to education my kids. And I only wanted to get a feel for the school; not necessarily be entertained while I was touring the facilities. But, immediately upon entering the place, he introduced himself and told us, “We sent the teachers home because of the weather, so you’re stuck with the administration!” Okay by me. “Let me show you around. Usually you only get the nickel tour, but since I’m the principal, I’ll give you the twenty-five cent tour!” Oh, I get it, you’re being funny. Ha-ha.

But whatever, I don’t need this guy to be my new best friend, I just need a competent school to fill my kid’s heads with some quality learnin’. And the school is nice. Small, but nice. They have a nice gym, and a computer in every classroom, and a computer lab with 20 or so Macs. The facility is clean and colorful, and the kids’ artwork is proudly hung in the hallways.

We end up in the Kindergarten room and while the teacher isn’t there, for whatever reason the teacher’s aid is. We chat with her and learn a little about how the school runs (they teach reading with the phonics system, they have a religious ceremony every Friday morning, the students get two warnings before they are sent to the principals office, etc., etc.) It all sounds reasonable. Then, we finally get around to the Hot Topic.

The aide doesn’t know much about how upper level science is taught, but she does know that they cover evolution. Okay, good. She recommends that we speak to a particular teacher, because he teaches 5th grade science. It turns out that the 5th grade science teacher and the principal and one and the same.

Oh boy.

So we track him down and ask him some pointed questions. He tells us that yes, he does teach evolution. Good. Then he teaches his students the problems with evolution. Not good.

“The biggest problem,” he tells us, is that evolution doesn’t have a starting point. They claim that lower forms evolve into higher forms, but it’s got to start somewhere. And that somewhere, in my teaching, is God.”

Now, it’s neither the time nor place to get into it with this guy. I hold my tongue; clearly we have radically different views on the topic. The Scientist tries to talk it out with him, explaining how when she went to school she was taught evolution in science class, and creationism in religion class. And how she thought these theories could live side-by-side. The principal tells us how he’s a literal interpretationist and, even though he doesn’t come right out and say it as such, it’s pretty clear that he has no room in his life whatsoever for evolution.

And honestly, I don’t care what the man’s person beliefs are… but I do have an issue with him teaching evolution simply to discredit it. And to his credit, he is honest with us, and says that if we’re looking for a school that teaches the age of the Earth to be millions of years old, that this is probably not the school for us. Fair enough.

We have the vibe that maybe we should just keep looking, and we start heading for the doors. But right about then they announce that there’s going to be an assembly of sorts to further discuss things about the school. Plus, there are cookies and punch. So we decide to stick around.

And I’m soooo glad we did.

The administrator, a nice enough fellow, despite his simpleton grin, welcomes the parents and thanks us for braving the weather to learn more about their school. He reinforces that this is a Christian school, and as such, there are a couple things they require, including that at least one of the parents much be a born-again Christian and that each child must have and know their own Bible by age four.

He explains some of the things that happen in the school, including the Friday morning service. Each grade must memorize a Bible verse and recite it, as a class, during the service every week. This seems innocuous enough, until he tells us what some of the verses are. They memorize one verse for every letter of the alphabet, such as “A is for absolute sin, which tarnishes us all;” “B is for the blood of Christ that washes away our sins;” and so on.

This is a little doom and gloom for me. How about, “A is for Adam, whom God made in His image” or something a little more cheery like that? The administrator wraps up his spiel. Then, the principal gets up to talk to us.

And wow, does he have some stuff to say.

He starts by re-enforcing that this is a Christian school, and that our children are going to learn good values and morals along with their education. And how this is more important than ever in today’s world. “You can’t even turn on the TV any more without seeing an inappropriate, non-biblical relationship any more,” he tells us. “In fact, just last night I was watching one of those home makeover shows--and you’d think those would be safe, right?--and the people they were building a house for were a couple of lesbians. And one of them was pregnant!”

He’s clearly shocked by this, and he spits out “lesbian” with the same distaste that one might say “pedophile.” And they were pregnant, too? God forbid (literally)! And then, amazingly, the very next words out of his mouth are this:

“Not that we judge anyone here.”

And I’m thinking, holy shit, are you joking? That is exactly what you’re doing. You’re judging people, and you are find them lacking on a daily basis. I’m tempted to just get up and leave at this point, but I don’t want to be rude and make a scene. So I sit and bite my tongue.

He goes on for awhile longer, and the stuff he says about religion affect me as much as his dismissal of evolution. His faith sounds a little scary, a little oppressive. I mean, I don’t need my kids to learn that the Bible is all sunflowers and unicorns, but I don’t want them to think that God is an angry, punishing force. And that’s exactly what I walked away with: God is watching you, don’t screw up or you’ll regret it.

The open house wraps up and we beat a hasty retreat out of there. This is clearly not the place for us, or our children. In the car ride home The Scientist and I have to consider if we’ve made a huge mistake in even thinking about sending our kids to a religious school. Are they all like this? Would they just be better off in public school? Can we, in good conscious, send our children to a school that teaches them something so radically different than what we think and believe?

The answer to all of these questions is we don’t know. So we’re back in research mode, looking around for new solutions. We’re resolute that we’ll find someplace that works. How can we even be sure that there is a good school out there that will meet their needs and our needs?

I guess we have faith.

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#236 In which our hero relates the unfortunate--and recently, all too often--contents of his daughter’s pants.

About a week or so ago Lily is playing in the family room and shouts, “I have to go potty!” I rush her off to the bathroom, as always, but this time she says, “uh-oh. Too late.”

And too late it was; she crapped her pants. When I ask her why she would do such as thing (she’s been potty trained for nearly a year now) she says, “I waited too long.” Okay, fair enough. She was playing and waited until the last possible minute to disengage, with disastrous results. I’ve been there (granted, it was in college, and I was really drunk, but I can still relate, y’know?)

Then it happened again.

Now, while The Scientist and I were trying to get her potty trained, we never pushed that hard, and we certainly never punished her for having an accident. But this time… well, it didn’t seem so much an accident as she didn’t really care that she pooped her pants. She wasn’t upset at all; in fact, she almost seemed to enjoy it. She laughed and kidded around, tried to tweak her mama’s nose while she was being changed. Clearly, she didn’t get the seriousness of the situation.

We tried to impress this upon her, but she didn’t seem to be listening. So we put diapers on her. Not the big-girl pull-ups she usually gets at night, but her little sister’s diapers.

And Lily had a fit.

She screamed and carried on and pleaded that she was a big girl, and she didn’t want to wear diapers and on and on. This is good, my wife and I thought, she gets it that there are bad consequences to this unnecessary pants-shitting. We assured her that if she stayed dry the rest of the evening she could wear her big-girl panties again in the morning. She accepted this, but clearly didn’t like it. Huh, I thought. Maybe I’m starting to get the hang of this parenting thing.

Then, an hour later, she crapped in the diaper.

It was a diaper, so it wasn’t like it was a big deal, but The Scientist and I were both like, “Shit. Now what?” Fortunately, it was near bedtime, she we just put her in pull-ups and put her to bed.

Then we had a couple good days (ie., all poop deposited in potty, not pants), and we started to let down our guard. Big mistake.

Last Saturday we were having a couple of friends over for some drinking/Guitar Hero, and about 20 minutes before they were to arrive Lily again says “I have to go potty! Oops, too late!” And once again it’s a big joke to her--but certainly not to us, since we’re trying to give the house a quick cleaning, and don’t need to deal with this of all things.

I’m at a loss of what to do (other than change her) but The Scientist, as often happens in these situations, Takes Control. She changes Lily, puts her into her PJs and says, “That’s it. You’re going right to bed. No snack. No stories.”

Lily loses her mind, of course. She’s mostly upset that she she’s going to bed before our friends get there. “But I want to see the visitors!” she screams. “You’re not being very nice!”

We set up the mothballed baby monitor outside her room, mostly to make sure she stays in bed as instructed. What follows is a pitiful and heartbreaking series of complaints/pleas from upstairs.

This isn’t fair!
I’m locked in my room!
I want to watch TV!
Why can’t I see the visitors!
I want oo-oo-oo-out!
I won’t poop in my pants again! I promise!

And so on. We go upstairs to check on her several times. She’s upset, but seems to finally understand her parents’ position on pants crapping. She tries to make several deals with us, including:

I won’t poop my pants ever again, so you should let me go downstairs!
I need a snack because I’m starving to death!
I just want to go downstairs for a minute. Just one minute!
I’ll just say hi to the visitors then go back to bed!
Can you bring the visitors up to my room so I can play with them?

We end up relenting and giving her a snack, but she remained banished to her bedroom. I told her that I understood that it was a very hard night for her, but that it was best for her to just go to sleep… tomorrow would be a better day.

Finally, after much crying and carrying on, she crashes and falls asleep. It was a little heartbreaking (more so for The Scientist than me) but we got through it.

I can only imagine that this incident will factor prominently in Lily’s therapy sessions when she’s an adult. Sorry honey, but mommy and daddy needed to get their drink on and rock out to Guitar Hero BIG TIME!

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DISPLEASED DISEASE

We all survived the holidays.

As previously reported, The Scientist got sick, and remained sick, for days. She basically didn’t get out of bed for four days. Come day three my father-in-law, who is prone to get a little bored, started to give her some shit about it. “You can’t just lay in bed for three days,” he said. “You have to get up. Take a shower and come downstairs; that’ll make you feel better!”

Then, despite my best efforts, I got sick, too. I started to feel crappy on Christmas day, and rapidly went downhill from there. In a perfect world my wife would have started to feel much better about the time I started to get sick… but it didn’t work that way. We were both sick and cranky at the same time. Thankfully the girls never got as sick as we did.

Speaking of the girls… Christmas morning was a big event, of course. They enjoyed their presents (all of them--it’s fun that they’re still at the stage that everything is fun, even clothes. That was always the bummer present for me when I was a kid. “Oh, a box of underwear. Big deal.” But they’re girls, so maybe it’ll be different) and the dueling toy rockets were a big hit. Maybe the best gift was this dumb marble run toy I bought on a lark.


I have to say, The Scientist and I also enjoy playing with it.

The in-laws left the day after Christmas, hoping to avoid the specter of death that was lurking over our home. Can’t say I blame them. It wasn’t the holiday that anyone had wanted.

And now, nearly two weeks after Christmas, The Scientist and I are mostly recovered. I still have a head full of glue, and my wife’s lungs are still a little labored… but Lord knows we’re head and shoulders above where we were.

EPILOGUE: Both my mother-in-law and father-in-law are now sick with what we had. I wish they weren’t, we tried hard to sequester our sick selves so they wouldn’t be infected. The Scientist’s father told her, “I’m so run down, all I want to do is stay in bed.”

To which I say, “Why don’t you get up, take a shower? That’ll make you feel better!”

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#235 In which our hero discussed his Christmas plans, and how they are not going as, um, planned.

Tomorrow is Christmas eve, and I have to admit that I'm not feeling very Christmas-y. See, I have this problem. I like to make plans, generally very casual plans, but plans nonetheless. And when these plans come together, it makes me very happy. But if they don't... well, I can get more than a little pissy about it.

And in the last four days, my plans have been thoroughly blown to shit.

The plan was that the in-laws were coming for Christmas, and no-one else. That makes for a nice, quiet and relaxed holiday. I was looking forward to it. I had the entire week of Christmas scheduled off, so I'd have plenty of time to kick back and unwind. The Scientist and I even planned on going out to see a movie. We don't often get the chance to just pick up and go (without the associated cost of a babysitter, of course).

Things started to go south early last week. I had taken Wednesday off just to burn my remaining vacation time. But Lily came down with a fever on Tuesday, and it was decided that it would be best to keep both kids out of school, just to be safe (our daycare is currently a festering cesspit of snot-nosed urchins). So my day off that was supposed to be a little light shopping and some heavy napping turned into me trying to entertain my kids all day. And here's the thing: I don't mind taking care of my kids for a day, I actually enjoyed it. But it was counter to the plan, which gnawed at the back of my mind.

Also, I'm involved with a new business pitch at work which, don't get me wrong, is cool. But it's very rush-rush-rush, and we need to send our finished presentation to the client by the 7th. That gives us next to no time to really pull everything together--especially considering that they are asking for three concepts. Anyway, it was clear that I'd be working some or all of Christmas week. And maybe the weekend right before Christmas, too. Suck.

But, as it turned out, I didn't have to work the weekend. So I thought it would be free and clear until the day after Christmas, which I will have to work.

Then The Scientist got sick.

And I mean really sick. She started to feel back Friday night, and spent all day Saturday in bed. Often, when people say something like I spent the entire day in bed it's an exaggeration; in this case, it was literally true. Other than getting up twice to go to the bathroom, my wife spent the entire day in bed. At 5 o'clock I made her some soup. Other than that she tossed and turned and moaned in bed.

Sunday morning, she felt better. Better enough to get out of bed and--wait for it--do a bunch of laundry. Why would she do this? You ask. I also asked. This isn't anything that can't wait, I said. Take it easy, you're not completely healthy yet. But no, she wanted to do laundry; and not only that, she wanted to go out shopping, then go to the fucking barn and feed her horse. Y'know, I said, you don't have to "catch up" on things you missed yesterday; this isn't anything that can't wait.

I'm fine, she said.

But, naturally, when she got back from the barn she felt worse. She immediately crawled into bed and tried to die. If anything, she's sicker now than she was yesterday. She's now dealing with, ahem, intestinal issues, so I'm giving her a wide berth.

In fact, I've been sanitizing my hands like crazy. The last thing I want is to get sick myself. Because I'm a huge pussy when it comes to getting sick.

So, clearly, we won't be going to the movies. We won't be having a dinner by ourselves. I won't be kicking back and relaxing. Did I mention that the girls also seem to have a touch of whatever is currently killing my wife? So yeah, they're whinny and hypersensitive and can't seem to play together for 10 minutes without getting into a fight. And since my father-in-law is engrossed in watching one football game after the other, I can't even put on the magic that is Dora. Even if I could, they'd just fight over what episode to watch.

My holiday plans are not going as I wanted. And I'm pissy about it.

But... I keep telling myself I only need to get to Christmas morning. Because we have some presents for the girls that they are going to LOVE. And I can't wait to see their faces. They are going to go mad with joy for these things.

At least, that's the plan.

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DAUGHTER FODDER

Whenever someone asks me if there was anything about fatherhood that I didn't expect, I say that I expected to love my children (eventually, as it turned out), I expected to feel protective of them, and I expected them to be terribly cute... but I never expected them to be so funny.

These kids make me laugh every day. And every time one of them does something that makes me laugh, I think I need to remember this so I can post it to my blog! But I never do. Sometimes because it's just funny in the moment, or it's so esoteric to our family that it wouldn't be funny to anyone else, or sometimes because it is just so stupid that I don't like to admit that it made me laugh. Like farts. Any time either of the girls farts, it's good for a chuckle.

But Lily did something earlier this week that made me laugh.

She apparently learned rock-paper-scissors at school, and wanted to play with me. But she didn't have it quite right.

LILY: Daddy! Daddy! Let's play!
ME: Play what, honey?
LILY: Play craft paper, stone, horse!
ME: Wait, what is it?
LILY: Craft paper, stone, horse!
ME: Huh. Honey, do you mean rock-paper-scissors?
LILY: Yeah!

So we play a couple of rounds, and I tell her paper covers rock, scissors cut paper, etc.

LILY: Daddy! Let's play something else!
ME: Okay, what do you want to play?
LILY (looking around) Let's play... um... rock, stove, rug!
ME: Sure!

So we play a couple rounds of rock-stove-rug (rug is in front of stove, rock breaks stove, rug covers rock) then Lily wants to play another game. This time it's Polly Pockets, horse, chair (Polly Pockets sits on chair, horse jumps over Polly Pockets, chair... jeez, I don't know what the chair does). This goes on for some time until she gets bored of it.

See? That's probably only funny to me.

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POOP GROUP

Today's post is brought to you by the letter "D" as in "Diarrhea." Specificially, diarrhea from my oldest. I thought maybe it was just because she ate a bunch of junk this weekend, but now I think it's more of a stomach thing. Hopefully, something that will pass quickly (no pun intended).

Because if it doesn't... well, it's going to be a long eight hours tomorrow.

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POP-POP ROCK

Eight hours later, we arrived in Maryland without incident. I have to say that the girls, once again, were fantastic. Strapped into car seats for seven hours, only getting out twice (once for dinner and once for a quick potty/gas stop) isn't the most fun for anyone, let alone a four- and two-year-old. Yet, they watched movies (thank you portable DVD player; if you were a living thing I'd offer you sexual favors for how much better you make my life on these trips) and slept. They conked out for good around 10pm, and we were able to get here, unload the car and transport them into the house without waking them up. Which is, of course, awesome.

And better yet, when Lily got up at 6:30am, I immedately sent her into her grandfather's room. She tried the door, but couldn't get it open. She then came back over to my side of the bed, and in a loud whisper said, "Daddy! Pop-pop's door is locked. I can't get in!" To which I answered, "Did you try knocking?"

So then I heard Lily knocking on their bedroom door for a good eight minutes before he finally got up and let Lily in. Macey woke up soon thereafter and followed her sister.

And The Scientist and I rolled over and went back to sleep.

For this, if nothing else, I am truly thankful.

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#232 In which our hero discusses his initial relationship with his children or, rather, the lack thereof.

This will come as no great epiphany to anyone (anyone who’s had kids, at least) but when your wife is pregnant you don’t really know what to expect. In my case, I am the youngest in my family, and my older sisters all live a considerable distance away; so I’ve never really been around babies that much.

Naturally, I expected to love my offspring… this expectation came not from any sort of experience but, that’s just what you’re supposed to do, right? So when the big day came everything went according to plan (well, if you call a pants-shittingly tense emergency C-section a plan) and we ended up with a baby in the end.

The Scientist immediately bonded with Lily, again, according to plan. It was pretty amazing to watch this tiny little creature respond to my wife, and intuitively understand what she was supposed to do--which, granted, wasn’t anything more than eat and sleep. I stood in the recovery room and watched this wonderful mother-daughter moment full of tenderness, wonder and love.

But while it was cool to watch, I didn’t feel it.

I mean, I expected to have this overwhelming tide of emotion sweep over me, and I’d know that this was my child, and I’d be protective of her and want to scoop her up in my arms and cover her with kisses… but I didn’t feel that way.

Actually, holding my baby felt like holding any other baby I’ve ever held. Of course, with any other baby I would hand her back to her real parents in short order; but I was the real parent this time.

I expected to feel… something more.

And being that I didn’t, it really worried me. I mean, I felt like such an asshole--what, you aren’t overcome with emotion about the birth of your first child? What kind of heartless robot are you?! But there was no denying that while cognitively I loved and accepted my daughter, there wasn’t the emotional attachment right away… certainly not what I was witnessing from my wife.

I fretted that I was a bad dad, that I’d be distant and uncaring from my children. This is far from the model set by my father, so I wasn’t sure where I went wrong. I didn’t talk to anyone about this at the time (The Scientist was far too busy feeding a baby and recovering from the surgery) so I just worried in silence.

But, slowly but surely, I began to become emotionally attached to my daughter. When she smiled at me, I definitely felt something. By the time she was recognizing my face, I was tightly wrapped around her little finger. In fact, she quickly became a daddy’s girl, and would cry out to me first, instead of her mother.

Looking back, this detachment I initially felt probably didn’t last more than several months; and it was certainly the minority emotion come her first birthday. But man, during that time I felt like a real heel.

Then, her sister came along.

You’d think I would have remembered these emotions, but giving how strongly I felt toward Lily, I expected that I’d feel that way toward Macey, too; and right away. But I didn’t. I was again kinda distant. Worse yet, since I felt a strong emotional attachment to #1, but not #2, I worried that I would love one of my children more than the other--and how shitty is that?

I dated a girl in high school who’s sister was clearly the family favorite. It was a bad scene to see the younger daughter (in this case) get all the attention lavished on her, while my girlfriend was starved for a little recognition. I didn’t want to be that kind of father, but I feared I was.

However, just like with Lily, my emotional attachment to Macey grew by leaps and bounds. In fact, just in the last several months I’ve felt closer to Macey than ever before.

But, I’m happy to report, no closer to her than I feel for her older sister.

I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling this way, but any time I’ve ever said something like, “Yeah, I was kinda indifferent about my kid when she was first born” I get horrified looks. I have to quickly add, “But we’re close now! Couldn’t be closer! Yep, real daddy-daughter love going on there!”

And it’s a good thing I love my daughters as much as I do. It might be the only thing keeping everyone alive while we drive eight hours to Maryland for Thanksgiving.

###

PAINT SAINTS

Boy, kids are useful for all sorts of things. Like, um, filling up a post half an hour before the deadline!

Come home yesterday to discover that my youngest daughter was a princess:

Well, yes, obviously a heart on my cheek makes me a princess. Jeez, daddy, you can be so dumb!

And my oldest was a pirate!

Thumbs up for pirates!

Apparently there was a birthday party at school, complete with clown. But not the same clown as was at the last party, Lily explained to me, because this was a lady clown. And she made balloon animals, but not very many. And she didn't do any magic, but she did dance.

My oldest could have had anything painted on her face, and she went with PIRATE. Awesome. Man, I love my kids.

Which gives me the topic for tomorrow's post. Thank God, because I'm running on fumes here.

Right back 'atcha, daddio!

###

SLEEPY CREEPY

Recent bedtime conversation with my oldest:

LILY: Daddy?
ME: Yes, honey?
LILY: I want 'too-loo.
ME: Who do you want, honey?
LILY: 'Coo-loo!
ME: Oh! You mean Cthulhu? *
LILY: Yeah! Ca-too-loo!
ME: I don't know where Cthulhu is right now, honey.
LILY: Maybe he's lost!
ME: Oh no, sweetheart. Cthulhu isn't lost... he's sleeping.

* What? You don't have a stuffed Cthulhu?

###

#225 In which our hero writes about a Halloween costume other than his own.

I know I promised to reveal the results of my company's Halloween costume contest today, but I think I'll wait until Monday. However, I will tell you about my children's Halloween costumes (so it's still costume-related, so that's cool, right?)

About a month before Halloween we asked Lily what she wanted to dress up as for Halloween. Her response was definate and immedaiate.

A chicken.

A chicken? Why a chicken? we asked. She didn't have an answer. We figured it was a passing fancy, and let it go. Then we asked a week later. Still, a chicken.

It soon become apparent that she had her heart set on being a chicken... so who were we to dash her avian dreams?

The Scientist and I started thinking about how we could pull this off. Not so hard, we figured... she could wear her white hoodie, we'd make some chicken feet out of foam, she could wear yellow leggins, I'd craft some sort of beak out of foam, too.

Then one Sunday, the Target insert featured kid costumes on the cover... including a chicken. Are you kidding me? I thought. Was the chicken a hot costume this year, and I totally missed it? But, since it was only something like $20, I thought that could save us a lot of time and aggravation. So my wife went off to buy one.

And they had one left in Lily's size. But just barely. We had to cram her into it a bit, but it looked great. So, if Lily was going to be a chicken, what would Macey be?

And egg, of course.

On trip to JoAnn Fabrics later, we had enough foam and fabric to fashion a pretty passable egg costume. You might not get what it was if you saw her by herself, but standing next to a chicken?

So now I can say with confidence that the chicken came first... but the egg was never more than a few steps behind.

###

SPIT FIT

Say you’re three years old. And you’re playing nicely with your friends when, suddenly, one of your little buddies takes the game in a direction you do not care for. Like, say, they want to be the red truck, but you don’t want them to be the red truck. How would you tackle that challenge?

If you were my oldest daughter, you would spit on them.

This is the information we got from one of Lily’s teachers last week. That Lily had had a bad day and was put in time out for spitting on a schoolmate.

When we got home I sat Lily down and had a talk. It went something like this:

ME: Lily, did you spit on someone today?
LILY: Yeah.
ME: Why did you do that?
LILY: Brendan was playing a scary game and I didn’t like it.
ME: So you spit on him?
LILY: Yeah.
ME: You know spitting is not nice, don’t you?
LILY: But Brendan was the ‘ronnosaurus and it was scaring me and I got up to sit on a different part of the carpet but he came over and was bothering me so I spit on him.
ME: …

I’m split between what the fuck and that’s right, you don’t fuck with my daughter or you’re going to get a face-full but mostly I’m wondering how in the world she decided that spitting was the answer? Hitting I can understand (if not condone) but good Lord, spitting?

Anyway, we had the big talk and she agreed to not spit at her friends if they were bothering her, and that it would be better to just get up and sit somewhere else or tell a teacher.

Then the next day she spit on someone else.

So then we had to have a bigger talk complete with threats (“if you spit on someone again, we’re going to take away your pacifier that night”--a pretty serious threat for our little girl) and more assurances that she wouldn’t do it again.

And the next day she didn’t. Macey did.

Which isn’t surprising at all, since Macey wants to do everything Lily does. But I’m not sure if Macey instigated it, since we were told that the entire toddler class had to have a time out because they were all spitting.

My little darlings. Spitting on their classmates.

And to think that I used to worry about hitting.

###

#214 In which our hero considers boobs and the future of his daughters.

Meet the Satterfield triplets:


Rachel, Sarah and Vicki (in any order). The Plain Dealer ran an article about these potential super-stars last week. Like any small town girls, these future Rhodes Scholars have big dreams. As one of the brain-trust so skillfully articulated, “In our world, we’re celebrities. But we want to be famous.”

And they’re well on their way. The first step of their master plan was to drop out of high school. Then, when they were old enough, they started stripping at a local “Gentlemen’s Club” -- to earn enough money for breast implants.

And their mother couldn’t be more proud. She’s quoted as saying, “I told them when they were kids that they could be and do anything they wanted to.” You can almost hear her sigh deeply and add, “And what they wanted to do was take off their clothes for money.”

But, things are working out for these dyed-blond dim bulbs… they’re going to appear in Playboy next month!

“It was a dream come true,” said spokes-dummy Vicki. “We’re not shy, and it was something each of us have wanted to do since I can remember.”

“When they were putting us into position… I almost started crying,” added second blonde from the left. "I just couldn’t believe we were getting our photos taken by Playboy!”

Now, who am I to fault these women desiring fame and fortune, huh? Plenty of women have started out as models and gone on to have big careers in film. Not that these geniuses want to do that. Their dream is become Playmates and live in the Playboy mansion in California. If that doesn’t pan out, they might become “women of the World Wrestling Federation.” And if that falls through, they’ll just strip at an “upscale club in Las Vegas.”

Ah, to be young and full of limitless ambitions!

When I first read their story I thought good call Playboy; who doesn’t want to see naked triplets? I mean, it’s six boobs for the price of one, right?

But then, once again, I was reminded of just how much my attitude about such things has changed since becoming a father.

Now I can’t read about these dim-bulb sisters without thinking of my own daughters--not that my kids are dumb; quite the opposite. The Scientist and I have talked about the girls’ futures… we hope for the best, of course. We want them to go to college (or rather, we want them to want to go), get a degree and then a decent-paying job in their field. And we also want them to be happy. This is especially important to my wife, being that she spent about eight years working in labs just for a paycheck, with little to no job satisfaction (I, on the other hand, have always wanted to be a copywriter and have been mostly happily employed as such since I finished school). And if they don’t want to go to college, but want to be, I dunno, landscapers, and it makes them happy… can I really be that bothered by it? Well, I can, of course, but if they’re happy in their jobs The Scientist will be correct in telling me to just shut my pie hole and smile.

But man, do I worry about the future. What will happen to my girls? I’m sure no father ever looked at his adorable three-year-old and thought, “yeah, she’s going to be a crack whore when she grows up.” But there’s plenty of crack whores in the world, y’know? I often say that I want them to start a musical or acting career so they can be super rich and The Scientist and I can be their managers a skim a healthy amount off the top. But then, I read about the scary craziness of Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan and I suddenly, that’s not so funny any more. Yeah, those girls are rich… but they’re also way out of control. One car ride away from a trip to the morgue. So I think I’m done with that joke.

Now, if they could discover a cure for cancer and patent it and make billions that way… I’d be okay with that.

Or, if they just did a really good job mowing my grass.

###

#213 In which our hero resists shaking his child--but just.

So, this parenting thing. It’s starting to wear me down.

Lily’s two’s weren’t especially terrible, if memory serves (and that could be complete bullshit because, as The Scientist is quick to point out, I tend to suppress any bad parenting memories older than, say, four months, in favor of the laughing, dog-pile on daddy memories) but lately, at 3 ½, she’s getting on my nerves.

You’d think this would be caused the constant “why” questions but, honestly, I enjoy those.

LILY: Why is that man [on TV] wearing a coat?
ME: He must be cold.
LILY: Why is he cold?
ME: Because it’s snowing.
LILY: Why is it snowing?
ME: Because it’s winter there.
LILY: Why is it winter there?
ME: Because we live on a planet called Earth that periodically rotates in a fashion so that part of the planet is further away from the sun than other parts, causing it to get colder.
LILY: We live on the Earth!

But what she’s doing now is this half-hearted fake crying, mostly when she doesn’t get her own way. It drives both The Scientist and me crazy. We’ve tried to explain that she shouldn’t fake cry, because Mommy and Daddy worry when she cries, and she should only cry when she’s really hurt (or really upset, I sometimes add… but this is a slippery slope, since she is “really upset” when Macey knocks her cup on the floor, for example) so we can come and make it better. If she’s bothered by something (or someone, I’m looking at you, Macey) then she should just ask for help.

Our explanations didn’t really help, though. So we went straight to the time-out option. Lily is starting to catch on, because lately we’ve been sending her straight to the time-out chair (or the “simmer down chair” which I like to call it, thank you Charlie & Lola) without any warnings. This is something new… in the past, we’ve always given her a warning or two… Lily, if you don’t stop X, you’ve going to have to go into time-out. But no more… one fake cry and she is sent directly to the chair, no forewarning. This is, in Lily’s mind, the height of injustice, and she really starts crying then. To counter this, The Scientist has told her that the time-out clock doesn’t start until she stops crying. This is kinda harsh in my mind, but it is effective.

But even more annoying than the fake crying, is the not listening. Lord Almighty, this gets on my nerves. I’m not good with my child blowing me off. When I say please come over here, I just want her to come over here, not keep digging in the toy box or whatever. After the fourth or fifth time repeating myself, I start to see red. I have to use my “command voice,” which generally gets Lily’s attention, if not her immediately acquiescence.

The bad part is that I know there’s a legion of parents with teenagers out there saying, “you think your kid doesn’t listen to you now? Wait until she’s 14!”

To which I say fourteen? I’m hoping to make it to eight.

###

#211 In which our hero recounts the events of a lovely wedding and the Bataan Death March which followed--part II

Our plan was a good one.

We’d get up at 4am, drive to the airport, check in, get on our 5:30am flight to Chicago, hop on a plane to Cleveland and be home in time for dinner. Ideally the kids would sleep much of the way. With dinner at home and a familiar bed time, we might even be able to get them back on a schedule with minimal pain and suffering.

But things starting going south as soon as we got on the plane. We were all situated, strapped in, taxied to the runway and ready to take off.

The engines powered up.

Then the engines powered down.

Then they powered up again.

Then down.

Throughout this process, we started to smell fuel in the cabin. Which couldn’t be good. Finally, the captain came on and said that there was a sensor fault in the #1 engine and he was taking us back to the gate to have it looked at. Should take about 30 minutes, he said. This was an inconvenience, but nothing horrible. The girls were still occupied with napping or watching DVDs.

After a half hour, they tired it again. Engines powered up. Engines powered down. “Sorry folks,” the captain said. “We’re going to have to offboard you to another flight.”

Which I thought at first meant that they’d bring another plane around and we’d get on that one. But that wasn’t the case… they were going to rebook us on a later flight. And the next available flight to Chicago? 1:15pm. Keep in mind that it’s now 7am. We had more than six hours to kill in an airport, with two cranky little girls.

We watched movies. We ran around. We played games. The girls, by and large, were in decent spirits. After a couple of hours, though, their spirits were clearly hitting bottom. And one by one, each of my girls, including my wife, fell asleep on the floor.

Since I only got about four hours of sleep the night before, there’s nothing I wanted to do more than crash, too. But, considering we were at a public airport, it seemed like at least one of us (us grown-ups, that is) should stay awake. And since The Scientist had already staked out her chunk of carpet, it fell to me.

As I sat there reading my book, I took a moment to look at my sleeping family. They were all cuddled up, more or less together, and their sleeping poses said so much about them. Lily, the sensitive girly-girl, snuggled close to her mama. She insisted in being covered by a blanket, so we did the best we could and draped her pink hoodie over her shoulders. Her hair shone red and gold in the sun. Macey, the stubborn, bull-headed child refused to stay on the blanket we laid down for her. Instead, she rolled around and fussed until she finally fell asleep; her butt up in the air, knees on the blanket, face mashed cheek-first into the gross airport carpet, hair a tangled mess. The Scientist was positioned strategically between them, trying to get close to both, comfort them, help them sleep. She was curled around Lily, a hand resting on her shoulder; while Macey was near the back of her knees. A slumbering yin and yang. Also, The Scientist’s ass was pointing up at me, driving me to think dirty thoughts even in my sleepy state.

We finally got on the flight at 1:30, and it was a pretty uneventful trip to Chicago. The Scientist managed to score us free meal vouchers, so we ate and snacked and watched movies and slept. Macey loves the TV. Loves it. The portable DVD player kept her fully engaged and occupied for the entire four hours. Which was great… until they told us to turn off all electronic devices. This threw Macey into a screaming rage that lasted a good 20 minutes. Only by landing and pulling her out of her seat did it stop.

We marched our droop-eyed children off the plane and to the next gate. While Lily was big enough to sit in an airplane seat without a booster, Macey had to use her car seat. Which, let me tell you, weighted a fucking ton. Dragging that damn thing through three airports really sucked. It wasn’t just heavy, it was awkward.

And, naturally, when we arrived we found our flight had been delayed two hours. Any and all positive energy from two days ago had been thoroughly beaten out of me by then, and when they made the delay announcement, I was less than charitable.

ME: Did I just hear that right? Delayed to 10:30? Are you fucking kidding me? GodDAMN it!
LILY: Daddy, why’d you say goddamn it? Why’d you say goddamn?
ME: Because I’m sick of being in these goddamn airports, honey.

So there was more running the girls around, more snacking. Thankfully our luck broke and the fight was bumped up to a 10pm departure. When we finally got seated, the girls were completely gone. No snacking, no movies; nothing but putting them into their seats so they could immediately fall asleep.

The fight to Cleveland was also uneventful. We picked up our baggage, which had arrived hours and hours before us. An aside: I think it’s crappy that the airlines just leave your bags out in the open if you don’t pick them up. At any point anyone could have walked by and said hey, that’s a nice bag! I think I’ll steal it! But everything was there and accounted for when we arrived.

We plodded through the final leg of our journey, out to fetch the car. The Scientist and I were both heavily laden with suitcases and roller bags and garment bags and plastic bags, so the girls had to fend for themselves. We prodded them along, finally crawling into the car around 12:30, local time.

An hour later, we were back home. I was scared that after all the sleeping, the girls would be wide awake and ready to play. Thankfully, they were as eager to sleep in their own beds as I was. With minimal wiping of faces and changing of clothes, everyone went to bed.

It was nice to be home again.

###

#210 In which our hero recounts the events of a lovely wedding and the Bataan Death March which followed--part I

The Scientist’s brother was wed last Sunday.

He lives in California, so we’ve been planning the trip for a bit now. Usually I’d be delighted by the prospect of a trip to the west coast and the opportunity to wear fancy clothes, eat a good meal and drink free booze. However, our children are three years old and two years old, which could potentially make the trip challenging.

And by challenging I mean a complete goddamn nightmare. Or, at least, that’s what I was expecting.

See, the wedding itself was in the evening, meaning that by the time dinner was served (7pm, local time) it would already be four hours past our kid’s regular dinner time (6pm, Cleveland time) and an hour past their bed time (9pm, Cleveland time). So this was going to be a problem.

Oh, and Macey (who, remember, is two) was diagnosed with ear infections in both ears two days before we got on the plane. So, y’know, fuck.

But, I was determined to approach the trip with a positive attitude. We’d deal with the kids--we bought bagfuls of snacks--and by God we’d enjoy ourselves. We don’t get to take a trip out to sunny California every day after all.

And, by the time we landed in California, it was starting to look like a positive can-do attitude was going to pay off! Our flights had been on time (and the layover in Chicago minimal), we managed to keep the kids occupied with the portable DVD players (yes, plural, we bought another one for the trip since we would be sitting in different rows for some of the flights) and with lots of snacks and juice boxes. Macey's ears didn't seem to bother her on the flights. We were greeted by Nana and Pop-pop at the gate, the girls were ecstatic to see their grandparents, and everyone was smiles and rainbows.

The first chink in my sunny new disposition came when it turned out that sunny California wasn’t all that sunny. Matter of fact, it was a little chilly. This put the kibosh on the swimming pool, which was one of our major bargaining chips with the girls. Matter of fact, we had to go out and buy the girls new jeans, since we had only brought light dresses and shorts. We did manage to get into the outdoor sauna (which Lily adorably called “The ‘Zon”) a couple of times, which was fun. And that was our Friday.

Saturday was the rehearsal dinner. We tried to get the girls on California time, and they seemed to be making headway. We didn’t have to feed them a full dinner beforehand, and we had high hopes that we could actually get them to eat dinner with us, instead of having to chase them around the table.

Now, it’s important to note that at functions like this, I consider my #1 job to be “keep the kids out of everyone else’s hair.” I’m very disdainful of parents who show up at an event at which there are other kids present and just release them to the pack. Most importantly, this event was to celebrate the impending wedding of my brother-in-law and his wife-to-be; I wanted all eyes on them, not me and a screaming three-year-old. And, like every parent, I assume that every time my child raises her voice above a whisper that everyone else in a three block radius is thinking, “Jesus, can’t you shut up your kid already?!” When the truth is most people don’t give a crap. Anyway.

The dinner went as well as could be expected, helped to some degree by an open bar and a constant flow of a wonderful Riesling (What? I wasn’t driving). It got a little dicey near the end, but mostly The Scientist and I got to enjoy a fantastic meal (the lamb was very rare and very good), drink coffee and actually chat with others at our table. This experience allowed us to breath a sign of relief… hey, maybe the wedding itself won’t be such a big deal!

Oh, such hubris!

Since the wedding didn’t start until 6pm, we had all day to kill. But first--an aside.

The Scientist and I also had an evening wedding. Thinking back, I’m not sure why we decided on evening rather than morning or afternoon… since there was to be a big dinner, I guess we just thought it would make sense to have it around dinner time. I remember that my sisters bitched a little bit about this, saying that they’d have to find something to entertain their kids all day. Tough shit, I thought. Cleveland’s a big city, you’ll find something to do. Needless to say, I’m a little more sympathetic now.

Anyway, we drove to a park and played, watched some movies in the room, let the kids play with their equally young cousins… the day progressed pretty quickly, actually. The Scientist even found time to visit with an old friend, have her hair done, and get a manicure and pedicure. Another aside--I don’t get the pedicure. I mean, I understand your fingernails, I guess… people will see your hands. And I guess people might actually see your toes, too, if you’re wearing an open toe shoe; but other than foot fetishists, who’s really evaluating your feet? And isn’t decorating your toenails just fueling their obsession?

We finally drive over to the venue, and it’s really cool. They choose a working winery, and the stone and timber building was surrounded on all sides by rows and rows of grape vines. However, it’s strange how my perceptions of such things have changed since I became a parent. What once I would have seen as a nice wide-open area for chairs and, later, dancing, I now saw as a rough cement slab that would tear the skin off my children’s knees if they fell. What once was a beautiful tile stairway built into the side of a hill was now something for my kids to tumble down and crack open their heads. The idyllic little fountain wasn’t so much a romantic accent as a swampy bit of land where the girls could get their shoes soaking wet (which Macey did).

Now, I’m sure the brother- and sister-in-law-to-be didn’t consider these things… and they shouldn’t have. It wasn’t their problem. They had other things to deal with. Actually, I hope they didn’t have anything else to deal with… everything went smoothly as far as I could see; if they had to put out any fires in the background we sure as didn’t notice. Then again, I spent most of the time chasing little girls to make sure they didn’t get into anything or accidentally brain themselves.

Unfortunately, things started to go downhill fast. Macey was a little whiney before we even got there, which was a big red flag. The Scientist had to hold her most of the time to keep her from screaming. Lily was better, but still a little off her game. We had no time to socialize (or worse yet, drink) before the ceremony started.

Macey was reaching full meltdown just about the time the ceremony started. I took her and walked her around the back of the winery--that is, as far away from the ceremony as I could get. There was a lot of “Which color is this flower? Right, yellow. What color is this flower? Right, red. How about this one?" Ad nauseum. My new-found cheery mood was starting to ebb.

We got through the entire ceremony without causing a scene (remember, job #1 is keep the kids out of other people’s way) and made it to dinner. The brother-in-law and his new wife thoughtfully provided kids meals (something The Scientist and I did not at our wedding--one of the few things I would change if we could do it over again) but it didn’t really help… Macey was really starting to lose her mind, and Lily only picked at her dinner. The Scientist was really flagging from lack of sleep (hair appointment + pedicure + manicure = no mid-day nap) and was starting to struggle to keep Macey quiet. She even pulled out the big guns (i.e., the portable DVD player) and it only momentarily staunched the flow of outrage over not instantly being put to bed. At this point, it’s about four hours past their normal (Ohio) bed time, and both kids were DONE.

The Scientist apologized several times to her brother for our children having fits… and received blank stares in return. Thankfully, he and his bride were largely unaware of the meltdown, which means we were doing our jobs as parents correctly. Thinking back to my own wedding, I don’t remember my sister’s kids throwing fits either--even though I was told after the fact that that is just what happened. Like I said, it always seems worse to the parents. My worst fear was that our kids would put a damper on their big day but, thankfully, that didn’t seem to happen. I hope their day was a wonderful and enjoyable as my wedding day was. I really wish them the best.

We finally loaded up the car and beat feet around 10:30… just a half hour shy of when they were kicking us out anyway. The girls instantly feel asleep.

Which was good, because we were taking the red eye out of California at 5:30am.

NEXT TIME: the voyage home… or, why it took us 19 hours to make a six hour trip.

###

#209 In which our hero gets to the bottom of who is hitting his eldest, and why.

Coming home from daycare yesterday, Lily and I had this conversation:

LILY: Miss Angie* hit me.
ME: What? Miss Angie hit you?
LILY: Yeah, she hit me.
ME: Where did she hit you?
LILY: On the hand.
ME: Why did Miss Angie hit you?
LILY: Because I wouldn’t go to sleep.
ME: How did she hit you, honey?
LILY: Like this (in the rearview mirror I can see Lily making hand-slapping motions).
ME: Lily, is this for real, or for pretend?
LILY: For real.
ME: And did it hurt you?
LILY: Yeah, it hurt me.
ME: Did it just hurt your feelings?
LILY: No, it hurt my skin.

* Not her real name. Don’t sue, please.

The Miss Angie in question is a worker at the daycare. She’s always been great with our girls; and we’ve actually had her over to the house a couple times to babysit. In fact, we had talked to her about babysitting tonight.

Now, Lily has a very active imagination, and has in the past accused schoolmates of doing or saying things we know for a fact aren’t true.

But Lily isn’t a liar, we can generally tell when she’s telling tales. And the exchange above didn’t sound like a made-up story. Needless to say, I was more than a little alarmed at the notion that one of my daughter’s care providers hit her.

So I called the owner of the daycare, Karen. We’ve known Karen for a long time … I first sat down and talked to her about daycare while The Scientist was still pregnant with Lily. So about four years now. When we started Karen was running her daycare out of her house, by herself; now she’s in a facility with a staff of eight. I told her what Lily said, and asked if she knew anything about it. She didn’t, and Miss Angie had already ended her shift. But Karen said she’d call her at home and get back to us.

When The Scientist got home I had Lily tell her the same story, and it was unchanged (another sign that I didn’t think she was making it up). We were both upset by this.

The thing is, we’re not overprotective parents. We let our kids fall and scrape their knees (or worse) on their own.

We hope that we’re raising them to be strong and independent. But there’s no escaping the urge to protect them. To make sure they’re safe. And there’s also no escaping the reality of our situation, which is that both my wife and I have to work to live the kind of life we want. So we put our children into the safekeeping of several strangers five days out of the week. For those eight hours a day we could either fret helplessly, or trust that these people are going to keep our kids safe for us. By and large, we do trust them. Our kids always have returned to us in one piece.

But yesterday threw everything into a tizzy for a moment. The fear that we had left our kids with people we shouldn’t have came crushing down. You read stories all the time about daycare abuse… could that be happening here, to our little girls? I mean, neither of our kids were coming home with bruises, but what level of smacking toddlers around is acceptable? The Scientist and I tried to think of a scenario in which it would be okay for a daycare provider to hit our kid… none came to mind.

But, as it turned out, there was an explanation. Apparently, right around nap time yesterday, one of the little boys peed on the floor. Miss Angie grabbed some paper towels to clean it up. Lily and one of her little friends wanted to “help” clean up, and both grabbed for the urine-soaked paper towels on the floor. According to Karen, Miss Angie “quickly moved their hands away,” but I suspect (based on Lily’s story) that she smacked them away. Not to hurt Lily or her friend, but probably just as a reaction, Hey! Get away from that!

And I’m okay with that. Lily, naturally, didn’t mention the pee on the floor part, but rather made it sound like she was being punished for not taking a nap. We had asked Lily if she cried when Miss Angie hit her, and she said yes… but it sounded a little sketchy. Like Lily was making up that part. And Karen tells me that she was there shortly after the “hitting incident” and Lily didn’t cry. I believe her.

So, drama over. But it was a frank reminder of how fragile our arrangement is… how our kids are out of our sight for a third of the day, nearly every day, and how we can’t protect them during this time. How bad things could happen, and we wouldn’t be there to shield them. How precious those little red-headed moppets are.

I just hope that next time Lily shares an alarming story like this, that the explanation will be as reassuring.

###

DOUR CHORES

Lily's chore list, as dictated by Lily.

1. Mop floor
2. Clean bathroom
3. Get paper off horse
4. Sweep floor
5. Clean Lily's head
6. Clean button
7. Get paper fixed
8. Clean mouse pad
9. Don't accept black horse
10. Mow lawn
11. Clean paper
12. Wipe sleeve
13. Keep Macey out of trouble
14. Clean computer
15. Clean nose
16. Clean mouse
17. Clean boys
18. Clean chair

I'm intrigued by #9 and frightened by #17.

###

#207 In which our hero celebrates a fairly amazing turn of events.

Potty training update: my kid is awesome.

As previously mentioned, we recently re-visited our potty training methodology; which was basically me saying “eh, she’ll do it when she’s ready” and The Scientist biting down on her tongue so hard that it bled. But even my lassie-faire attitude was starting to wear thin as Lily continued to show zero interest in crapping on the toilet.

We had, of course, heard the stories of parents who took their kids out of diapers and put them into real underwear and poof! Five days later they’re completely potty trained. An anonymous commenter on this very blog reported that it only took her kid TWO DAYS in underwear to permanently leave diapers behind.

The thing is, we’d tried that before. And my big issue is that when Lily has an “accident” she’s not the one who pays the price, I am. She's not the one who gets nauseated when I’m leaning over the utility tub scrubbing mud out of a tiny pair of panties.

But, I started to see the beginnings of a Big Fight between The Scientist and I bubble to the surface, so something had to be done. I mentioned to my wife that I was re-thinking the panties thing.

And, at first, it was as bad as I feared. She’d pee or poop whenever and wherever she wanted, and I cleaned up the mess. I knew that no progress would be made unless she felt uncomfortable in her wet pants, so I let her sit in it for a while. It can’t feel nice to had a saggy butt full of poop, right? After an HOUR of walking around with a big turd in her panties I finally asked, “Lily, don’t you want me to clean up the poop in your pants?” To which she replied, “No! I like poop in my pants!”

Aw, crap.

It wasn’t working. We needed to try something else. We were going to have to take her to that child shrink after all. Then something magical happened.

She started to poop on the potty.

Kinda all at once, too. One day she stayed dry all day in daycare, then she stayed dry at home. She started to tell us when she wanted to go. Then the capper: I was upstairs getting something and Lily, completely of her own volition, when to the bathroom, got on the potty herself, and laid a turd roughly the size of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

I think this kid is potty trained. I’m not saying that she’ll never have another accident, but I think we’re way along the right path. It’s amazing.

And equally amazing is that my wife hasn’t said anything to me, even though she always championed more aggressive techniques and, I bet, is just dying to say, “I fucking told you so!”

###

#204 In which our hero discusses a certain bathroom activity of his eldest that appears to be happening everywhere except the bathroom.

So, potty training.

Lily is three, a bright kid, and completely able to articulate what she wants and when she wants it. You’d think she could tell us when she’s about to fill her pants. But no. She appears to have no real interest in pooping on the potty, at least with any regularity (not to say she isn’t regular… this kid craps as much as a construction worker after a pot of coffee). She doesn’t seem to mind have a wet, saggy butt.

Lately, she’s been crapping herself silly at day care; like, through her pull-ups and into her pants. It’s getting a little old to pick up a reeking bag of shit-stained trousers along with my child. Problem is, Lily doesn’t seem to care. We had this conversation last night at dinner:

ME: Lily, did you poop your pants today?
LILY: Yes!
ME: Honey, that’s gross. You should only poop on the potty. You don’t want to have poop in your pants, do you?
LILY: Yes I do!
ME: Ugh, you do? Why? Why would you want poop in your pants?
LILY: Because I’m Poop-Girl!

I’m really torn on how to proceed. I want her to be potty trained, of course. Lord knows it would be nice if the house didn’t constantly stink (side note: thank God for warmer weather, now we can open a window once in a while) and we could save a small fortune in diapers. But I don’t want this to turn into a terrible contest of wills. Because no-one is going to win that battle. Lily is strong-willed (although not as much as her little sister) and there’s already been some instances of The Scientist holding her down on the potty while Lily screams “No! No! I don’t want to be on the potty!” I don’t want to make that a daily occurrence.

Now, The Scientist wants to be more proactive about potty training. Lately, she’s been espousing the idea of punishing Lily when she fills her pants. I’m really not sure if that’s the way to go. While I’m positive that Lily’s past the point where she can’t control her bowels, I don’t think she’s being willfully disobedient with the pants-crapping. It’s not like, “Okay, Mommy, I can’t have a sucker before dinner, huh? Then how about this?!” Pfffffft-plop!

And, y’know, I just don’t want to see my little girl cry. Which will happen if she has to go to time-out three times a night.

Our day care provider has been suggesting that we take something away from Lily when she doesn’t poop on the potty. Like no computer or videos for the rest of the night. More tears.

But, more importantly, I think, is that I don’t believe any of this will work unless Lily has to do it 24 hours a day. And what are they going to take away from her at day care? Would they make her stand in the corner while other kids played? That’s shitty, and I’m not good with that.

Our pediatrician has suggested we take Lily to see a child psychologist about potty training. This sounds like a waste of time and money, but maybe this psychologist has a magic technique to turn Lily’s attitude around. I don’t know… but I’m willing to go. If nothing else, I’m curious how Lily will interact with him/her.

My real fear is that this will lead to big fights between me and The Scientist. We had some