Boys are harder than girls

The mother of these two boys
will not be having a third

A few weekends ago, we were visited by our friend, an out-of-town mother, and her four kids. Good golly, four kids. (As a side note, I learned that three parents and six children wasn’t much harder than two parents and two children – the best argument for polygamy I’ve seen).

This is one of two families we know with four kids. Let me explain how you get to four children – first, you have three girls and you want a boy. Then you realize how foolish it was to want a boy and quit. It’s the same in both families. Three girls followed by one boy. We have friends with three boys. I can assure you that our friends with three boys are not having a fourth. When you have two boys, you think maybe, just maybe, I can still eke out the energy to handle the little princess I’ve always wanted. But when that third boy comes, you know that if you have a fourth you will probably die.

Boys are harder than girls.

Let’s be clear. Parenting, irrespective of circumstance, is hard. All children are hard. Young girls are hard. They are fickle and demanding. They are irrational. They scream and whine and cry to get whatever ridiculous thing they want.

But young boys take it to a whole different level. Young boys are little monsters. They do everything listed under girls above, plus they destroy stuff. They are violent. Every object becomes a sword to swipe at things or a hammer to smash things with. On top of it all, they have so much energy that they run around until they slam into walls and damage them.

Cody, my little boy, is fearless. There is nothing I can say or do that will stop him from doing whatever knucklehead thing he wants to do. He literally laughs at – when my blood is really boiling – what he should recognize as mortal peril. Naturally, he’s too knuckleheaded to realize that the laughing increases the blood boiling and, in turn, the peril.

Andrea regularly reminds me that Chiara is 6 and Cody is 4 and that we can’t hold the 4-year-old to 6-year-old standards. And that is fair. But me forgetting how hard Chiara was at 4 doesn’t make it pleasant to be around Cody at 4. (Plus I actually do believe Cody at 4 is much worse).

There is also something about birth order. I think it really stinks to be the younger sibling. Cody can’t concentrate long enough to, for example, play golf. So, he isn’t invited to play golf. He has to stay home and smash things while Chiara gets to have all of the fun. As first born, Chiara is (at least at the moment) by-and-large a rule follower. Cody couldn’t give a flip about the rules. He has to carve his own way in life. The point is: if you are going to have a boy, make sure he’s first born.

It’s not all birth order, though. Andrea and I once stayed with my aunt and uncle in Tulsa, where I was a child. In telling Andrea about those early days, my aunt said “He was a perfect little…” there was a dramatic pause to let the listener’s brain fill in the blank, “[expletive].”

Andrea later told me she thought my aunt was going to say “Angel.” Instead of the expletive, she probably could have just said “boy.”

I Wish I Were Big

I wish I were big, so I could do taxes

Chiara only wants to eat off of porcelain bowls and drink from glass glasses anymore. The plastic stuff is too babyish, and she wants to be like a grown up. Cody has said “I wish I were a grown up, so I could make the rules.”

I’ll be honest, there are plenty of times when I wished the ageing process could be accelerated, ending the days of screaming matches over whether the pink toothpaste is suitable or only blue will do. And I have to admit, each milestone in parenting are nice to be past. I’m glad we don’t change diapers any more. I like sleeping through the night, and I like that the kids will sometimes, occasionally, sleep in past 6am.

I also must admit, being an adult has its privileges. I like sitting up for one more episode of West Wing if I want to. I like picking out my own outfit every day (from the pre-approved clothes which Andrea has selected for me). I like deciding what night is pizza night.

So, I’ve embraced this “I’m a grown-up” idea from the kids. That’s why I’m making Cody get a job or else he’s on the street. Chiara has to do the accounting and file our taxes. They’re about to get a cold dose of reality about “making the rules” – it turns out that as a grown up, you have to do the dishes even if you don’t want to. You have to use whatever darn toothpaste is around, and only occasionally get to throw a temper tantrum.

Personally, I long for nothing more than the days where the most stress I faced was an internal debate whether to play with Ninja Turtles or Star Wars figures. Where someone else took care of the big decisions and I could focus my attention on splashing in the tub (okay, with Andrea around it’s still kind of like that). Where I didn’t have to worry about making the mortgage payment and could just go to soccer practice. Would I trade all that for having to go to bed at 8:30? Heck, I want to go to bed at 8:30 most nights!

On the other hand, you want your kids to enjoy their short time as kids. For the children, life is fun. Chiara does math problems FOR FUN. She arranges her sock drawer FOR FUN. Cody’s hobbies aren’t quite as kooky as his sister’s, but let’s just say he’s not overly concerned with keeping his clothes clean if fun the alternative involves sidewalk chalk.

It’s just one more of the great ironies of parenting. You want your children to grow up. A little. And not too fast.

So the best advice I can give, but can’t always follow, is that life is much more fun when you accept that the kids are kids. Don’t own a beautiful house filled with delicate objects when you have a four-year-old boy. Don’t pretend he can handle himself on a golf course. Embrace the notion that blue toothpaste is better than pink toothpaste. Do your best to enjoy childhood, or adulthood, or whatever “hood” you may be in life.

The World Series of Parenting

Fortunately they don't award these for parenting

A friend recently posted a Facebook story where a stranger walked up and said something to the effect of “your kids are so well behaved, you must be darn fine parents.” Let me eliminate any mystery and let you know that no strangers ever walk up to us in restaurants and tell us that. In fact, I am usually in the uncomfortable position of explaining our kids’ behavior away. I usually say something like “they’re foster kids; they were raised by wolves.” That way strangers can rest assured that we are in fact, “darn fine” parents.

But we’re not darn fine parents, at least in the eyes of strangers. In my experience, strangers generally judge your parenting skills by your children’s ability to sit still and instantly do what they are told. Whether these skills are actually what helps them develop into well-adjusted, productive adults… nevermind, that’s a rant for another time.

No, our parenting will never meet the stranger definition of darn fine. The reason is we are big softies. But we are softies in different ways. Andrea is hard up front and soft later. I’m soft up front and hard later. In other words, when a child asks me if they can do something, I tend to decide right away whether or not it is okay. And I’m soft in that it is usually okay. But if it is not, I stick to my guns. No. Matter. What. This has the upside that I have a slightly higher compliance rate on first requests. It has the downside that trivial incidents tend escalate into the Cuban Missile Crisis. Soon intermediaries from Switzerland are visiting Cody and I trying to generate mutually face-saving solutions to whether or not he can have another bed time book.

But being hard up front and soft later also has its downsides. Here’s how it goes in this situation:

“Can I have another cookie?”

“NO!”

(Whine)

“No.”

(Whine)

“no”

(Whine)

“Well okay, since you were good today.”

Andrea and I used to play a lot of poker. In poker terms, my parenting method is to either fold or go all in. When you go all-in a lot, you win a lot of hands. But it puts you at risk of occasionally busting out. Andrea’s method is more like bet-bet-bet-fold. She busts out, but she does it slowly.

As a side effect, the kids are becoming master poker players. They can read Andrea’s bluffs; they know when to call down my all-in to a chopped pot. Andrea and I aren’t going to win the World Series of Poker any time soon. But we have a better shot at winning a bracelet than we do to be called “darn fine parents.”

Look! A Kangaroo!

This is how I spent my weekend...
What did you do?

Now that he is four years old, Cody has a new habit: lying. Or, more like fanciful storytelling. Here’s an example- we attended a Cleveland Indians Game, where Cody slipped on the stairs and busted his chin. He required stitches and missed most of the game. A week later, as he was getting his stitches removed, Cody explained to the nurse 1) that he’s 7 years old, 2) he has no siblings, 3) his chin was injured by being hit with a home-run baseball.

Cody has also been known to name himself Lord Coco of the plant Zebron. He’s also spotted kangaroos in our neighborhood. He’s all-in on these fantasies. Cody, if challenged, will defend them violently in anger.

In truth, I’ve learned something from my four-year-old son. I’ve learned that life can be a lot more fun if you just make it up as you go along. It’s just cooler to be hit by a baseball than it is to make a fool of yourself slipping on stairs. It’s better to be an only child than to be the littlest and take grief from your older sister. And the world is a cooler place if you can spot Kangaroos while driving down the parkway.

So, I’ve taken a page out of Cody’s book. That’s why I recently spent a week on holiday in Luxembourg, where my father is the 14^th Crown Prince. We raced our Bugattis on the motorway and flew our Courseair to our private penthouse suite at the Monoco casino. We drank $3,000 bottles of scotch, smoked $500 cigars, and ate nothing but rare Moldovan caviar. You haven’t heard of Moldovan caviar, because it’s that rare.

Sure, Luxembourg looked a lot like Houston. And the scotch tasted like Bud Light out of the can. But it’s a way cooler memory if it includes a Bugatti. Wait, Moldova’s not on an Ocean? In my fantasy it is.

I’ve got a long way to go and a lot more to learn from my son. This was just some crummy middle European Dukedom fantasy. What’s a Bugatti compared to a spaceship? And what’s Luxembourg compared to an entire planet? There’s room to go way bigger and way better.

In the end, the lesson is: be happy with what you have, make up the rest.

Don’t Wake Mama Bear

Today's post is a guest post by MamaBear who tells us a little bit about what it's like to defend one's cubs in the rough and tumble world of suburban Strongsville...

 

Mama Bear- ever vigilent

Hidden deep in the lush forest of the Midwest (the Strongsville Metroparks), lives an elusive creature known for her fierce, loyal, and irrational protection of her cubs.  As her offspring enter into what some consider the golden-years of cubhood (the ages between 6-12 when cubs become interesting and pleasant), there have been increased sightings of this wild protector.  Who is this insane animal, you might ask, and where has she been spotted?  You need only look to a nearby bus stop, playground or library story-time to locate her.  And it is there you will find… The Mama Bear. 

My day started out as any other.  The kids woke, got ready for school, and together we walked to the bus stop where we greeted several other moms and children.  Things were moving along quite nicely, children excitedly planning for the school day ahead, moms chatting about the weather…wait a minute.  Wait just a minute.  Did that kid just push my kid?  DID THAT KID JUST PUSH MY KID?!!  And then it happened.  My grizzly teeth grew sharp, my eyes got wild, my Jamberry nails transformed into claws right there at the bus stop.  I grew to a towering eight feet and broke right through my yoga pants and sweatshirt.   Mama Bear was awake!   I lumbered over to my child (who had moved on from the alleged (possibly misconstrued) pushing incident), and said, “Are you ok?” and then even louder, “Did John just push you?”  My son replied, “No, he tripped and bumped into me.”  Oh, ok.  And just like that, my teeth and eyes returned to their human form, my nails regained their suburban-painted status, and my clothes once again fit my 5’5 frame.  Mama Bear headed back to the cave. 

Returning to the house, my three-year-old and I decided to head out to the library story-time.  Honestly, can you think of a more benign, fun, and educational experience?  We got there a bit early so my kid could get a front and center seat.  He was happy.   And of course, I was happy that he’d reached an age where story-time no longer involved him climbing me like Mt. Everest throughout the entire 20 minutes of painful songs, rhymes, and finger plays.  All was going well as the other children filtered in, and I may have even patted myself on the back for our participation in this enriching activity.  Wait a minute.   Are those kids… ARE THOSE KIDS NUDGING MY KID OUT OF THE FRONT SPOT?!!  A deep growl emerged from me, and Mama Bear was awake!  Very loudly, so the other mothers were sure to hear, I roared, “Ben, don’t let those kids push you!  Batten down the hatches, honey!  Hold your position man!”  Then I glowered my big grizzly eyes at the offending toddlers.  (Did I just swipe my bear paw at that girl?)   I was on full alert, glaring around at the toddlers and parents in a frenzied, rabid sort of way, with a look that I am certain conveyed, “Don’t touch my cub, and you best find another place to sit.”   Thankfully, story-time started and all was well.  Mama Bear once again headed back into the cave.

That night at dinner, my 6-year-old casually mentioned that one of the girls at school was being mean to her.  Smelling danger as any Mama Bear would, I asked her what the girl had said and she responded, “She called me skinny”.  My husband, who rarely gives advice, sat silently.  In fact, I think my whole family was waiting for my reaction.  And there it was.  My face heated, my breathing increased, my finger (paw really) started making that “Z” shape in the air and I heard myself roar, “She said what?  SHE SAID WHAAATTT?!!”  I think I might have seen my husband’s eyebrow raise a bit, but I was just getting started.  Mama Bear was awake!  “Well,” I rabidly howled, “What did you say back?  WHAT DID YOU SAY BACK?!!  Did you say, ‘I’m going to kick your--‘”  My husband shot me a look complete with the throat cut-it-off sign.  My daughter replied, “I don’t want to say that, mom.”  Getting all the more agitated, I crazily responded, “Did you tell her to shut up and mind her own business?  Or how about saying…”  My 8 year old cut me off and sagely stated, “Mom, Jesus tells us to turn the other cheek”.   Again I saw my husband’s eyebrow raise in question.  In full frothing Mama Bear mode I retorted, “Listen, Michael, different context.  Jesus wasn’t talking about mean girls!”  Everyone else at the table pretty much agreed that this was the exact kind of situation that Jesus was apparently referring to, and so one dad, his daughter, and her two brothers decided that the best response was to simply say, “Thanks.”   As a rabid Mama Bear ready and willing to protect her cubs at all costs, I questioned the retort, but all involved assured me that this method would work to curb this kindergarten bully.   “Fine”, I said with a low rumbling growl.  (Actually at this point it is more of a resolute Chewbacca-whine.)  “But maybe you can at least swipe a paw at her when you say it.” 

 

KiddleDad's 50th Blog Post

This happened to somebody else's blog
after 50 posts... you can do it, Mom!

This post marks the 50^th KiddleDad post. I’m amazed, since when it started I thought that I might very well fizzle out after four or five posts. But no, parenting is a treasure trove of humorous events. If you can write 500 words about the eating of oatmeal, there is seemingly endless supply of topics that can be covered.

One thing I have learned in 50 posts is that you can’t just create content; you have to market it if you want people to read it. So I’ve put in place a digital marketing campaign that I summarize as: post it on Facebook. I also have advanced analytics that tell me exactly how many people have read each posts, so I know what topics and what marketing attract the most attention.

I know, for instance, that after 50 posts I have roughly 100 page views. Given that Andrea reads the draft before it is posted (to remove all Pope jokes and curse words), and that I read it one time once posted to make sure it formatted okay, that means I have one person reading my blog – My Mom.

Therefore, in honor of my 50^th post, I called my Mom last night to get a list of her favorites. Here they are:

1.       A Case of the Yucks

2.       Buy High, Sell Low

3.       Ummmm… errrrrr…

That’s right, my Mom couldn’t think of a third. When asked to conjure up even a single memory of another post, she was stuck. Apparently the other 48 posts, which I know she dutifully read, have not made much of an impression. Looks like I shouldn’t be working on a book deal soon. (In fairness to Mom, she’s had a lot of heavy things on her mind lately).

What are my favorites, no one in particular asks? What, you want me to choose, like choosing my favorite child amongst my children? How can I possibly? Actually it’s no problem. Some were truly inspired, others I just mailed in. Here are my favorite 5, in order:

1.       Crime and Punishment

2.       The Brown Badge of Courage

3.       May The Cheese Be With You

4.       Kiddie Capitalism

5.       Captain America and Iron Man Share Wardrobe Tips

The other thing you might not realize is that I get paid to do this blog. Those ads for Irritable Bowel Syndrome at the bottom?  I get paid just for showing those to you. I get paid even more for clicks. So far, I’ve made a whopping $2.32. Would it kill you to click on a darn ad, Mom?

Hence my shameless plugs above to get you to go read old posts. Every view is worth like half a cent. So please – go back and read those old posts and a bunch more. Scroll and click randomly. Share the ones you like with your friends. Make this thing go viral. It’s worth like ten bucks to me – I’ll buy your kid an oatmeal.

I [heart] Obamacare

Ladies and Gentlemen:
The President of Ohio, Manack Banana

When you’re a graduate of Harvard Business School, you have many opportunities to be humbled throughout the rest of your life. Several classmates have made their fortunes many times over and are now writing sagacious blogs about how to be worthy business investors. One classmate’s father ran for president – of the United States, not SECPTA. Sal Khan (Founder of Khan Academy) was in our class for goodness sakes. This guy’s in TV commercials and was on the cover of Fortune! What have you done with the past 10 years, you schlub?

Another of our classmates, who at least still returns our emails (still missing you, Sal!) is running for Congress in California. I bring this up in a (mostly) parenting blog because our kids are really into politics these days. Or at least politics at a 4-year-old level. For example, they both know that the president’s name is Manack Banana, that he lives in the White House, and he is the president of Ohio. He flies around in Air Force one, which is a crumpled up plush doll plane that’s been on the bottom of the toy chest too long. We live in the state of Strongsville, which is part of the United States.

So this classmate is running for congress for the wrong party. Nevertheless, as friends we made a meager donation reflective of our Harvard status – don’t know how much Sal Khan gave, but we donated I think $50.

Big Mistake.

Let me be clear here, if you are ever presented the opportunity to donate to a political campaign, pass. Do not feed the bears. Having given that miniscule donation, I am now bombarded with an average of 5 emails a day with titles like:

Boehner Can’t Believe It!

With breathless text explaining: Boehnercantbelievetheresponsewevegottentothepetitiontooverturntherepublicanbudgetjust13moredonationsbeforenoontomorrowandwellhave200,000donatenowrecommendeddonation$5!!!!!!

Now I even get emails from Nancy Pelosi (shaking my head). Like I said, big mistake.

And the email that caused howls of laughter around our dinner table – I have no idea why I checked this email at the dinner table, but I did – was the one that said for $5 I could get a free bumper sticker saying “I [heart] Obamacare.” The kids absolutely think this is the funniest thing they’ve ever seen, and routinely ask to see that email again. One mention of the word “Obamacare” is now enough to ignite our carload into rapturous laughter.

I think the email’s funny, too, not so much out of any grievance I have with Obamacare, but more at the notion that anyone could [heart] such a thing.

Not that the Dems have the market cornered on this tripe. I have grandparents at the opposite end of the political spectrum, who routinely send me politi-spam bemoaning how school kids don’t sing the Star Spangled Banner anymore and that the democrats want to sell our Bibles to pay for condoms for drug dealers.

So with this constant, competing noise blaring in each ear, I feel I have a unique perspective on this whole political thing. Here are my findings:

1.       John Boehner and Nancy Pelosi are constantly being taken by surprise. Apparently they are not very savvy.

2.       Obamacare is the funniest thing in the world.

So let’s lighten up, people. And whatever you do, do not feed the bears.