Lunch

This is second in my 3-part series on why meals stink when you are a parent. For breakfast, see here.

One of the tasks I dread in life – because it is relentless, every night - is packing lunches. Packing for Andrea and myself is bad enough. At least there we can rely on a few good standbys like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It’s boring, but it gets the job done. The kids, however, don’t eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, or any kind of sandwich. So you have to get creative. Cheese stick and apple sauce? Does that count as a meal? How about hummus and pepperoni?

Part of the process, every night, is checking the menu at Sweet Kiddles to see if the kids will eat the next day lunch there. There was a point where the novelty of eating the school lunch was enough to get them to eat almost anything that was served there (“Mommy, mommy, today we had Foie Gras and I liked it!” … well, okay, maybe not). No more. Now one or both children won’t eat virtually every meal. Beef Goulash? Chiara loves it, and Cody hates it. Chicken Patty Sandwich? You guessed it, Cody loves it, Chiara hates it. Plus the curve balls- Cody liked Swedish Meatballs last time but four weeks of deep thought on the subject matter and they no longer suit his more mature palate. Forget that someone needed a lunch that day and you are in hot water later. Luckily Miss Lynn has many cream-cheese-and-cracker tricks up her sleeve.

There is one, and only one, blessed meal where both children will eat it: Macaroni and Cheese with hot dog pieces. Chiara loves macaroni. Cody loves hot dog. It is the greatest dish conceived by man as far as we’re concerned – at least since Sweet Kiddles stopped serving Foie Gras.

Ladies and gentlemen, this week Wednesday, August 21, 2013, was macaroni and cheese and hot dog day. It was a great day. And that made Tuesday, August 20, 2013 a great evening.

The macaroni and cheese, as well as every other meal at Sweet Kiddles, is surrounded by fruits and vegetables in an attempt to ensure a healthy diet. As far as my kids are concerned, these are just garnish. They would no sooner eat the peas served at lunch than you or I would eat the sprig of parsley atop our Morton’s Steakhouse steak. When we pack a lunch, we often pack veggie crisps since they eat them and they maybe, just maybe, get some nutrients into the kids. We’re being delusional, of course. Reading the nutrition label on veggie crisps reveals they provide 2% daily allowance of Vitamin A, 0% Vitamin C, Sodium 26%. Read the ingredients: potato flakes are listed first. Yes, veggie crisps are Pringles with some food coloring in earth-toned packaging.

There’s one more course at lunch, which we have no problem getting our kids to eat – it’s the candy course. We must pack a piece of candy in each lunch, or we hear about it later. The kids also usually get a piece of candy on their way home from school at the end of the day, and often one more at dinner. I often wonder: How did we end up giving out so much candy? The simple fact is: it’s the law of precedent in action. A loving gesture on their mother or father’s part one day long ago turned into candy every lunch, ride home and dinner, presumably for the rest of their lives.

The rewards of parenting are far away and the pain is close. Sort of like dieting. And like dieting, sometimes you need the little cheats to get through the painful parts. One Hersey kiss isn’t going to wreck your diet, nor will it wreck your child’s upbringing. You can tell I’m an expert at both diet and childrearing: the first by my masculine, athletic physique and second by my calm, collected presence with my children. The secret to the physique is veggie crisps. The secret to the collected presence? Macaroni and cheese and hot-dog lunches.

The Pre-history of Sleep

Each night in our household goes through a series of phases, each of these are an assault on sleep. It seems that the law of natural selection has favored those qualities in our children that are most adept at keeping me from my slumber. Here’s a walk through the pre-history of sleep:

At the dawn of the sleep era is the Early Gotobedium period (c. 7:30-9:00pm). Dinners and tubbies are done and the house is cleaned up. Now the fight over sleep can begin in earnest. The defensive tactics that evolve during this time period can be summed up by the phrase “delay, delay, delay.” This can be done several ways: claim hunger (a good mechanism for this is to refuse to eat dinner); refuse to get on pajamas; refuse to pick out books; and - when all else fails – the battle cry of sleep avoidance: laywithmelaywithmestaywithmestaywithmeIdontwannagotobed!!!

Next comes the Middle Gotobedium period, sometimes called the Gotofrickenbedium period (c. 9pm-10pm). Here, the parents are just trying to get some work done, for goodness sake – there is always work – so that they can watch a little TV and relax. But regular interruptions can be expected. A great defense against sleep at this point is to be scared of the dark. When the lights are left on, you have to get creative, but since you’re not sleepy at all, monsters can be imagined anywhere you put your mind to it. Bonus points in this phase if you re-waken your sister and get her involved, double bonus if one parent is out of town and has to put both kids back to sleep.

Finally, finally, the kids are asleep and we begin the Late Gotobedium period (c. 10pm-12am). Here the wounds on sleep are mostly self-inflicted by the parents. Work gets wrapped up or postponed until morning (when it can then be postponed until evening), and it’s time to go to bed. But wait, I’m not a robot! I’m not a nun! I can’t just work and take care of kids all day and not have a little me time. So even though we really shouldn’t, we cut into our sleep and watch some TV. A snack and maybe a drink help to do even more damage to our mental and physical health, but we deserve them.

At some point we enter the Early Whattheheckium period (c. 12am-3am). Parents are in early, light slumber or even still awake trying to fall asleep but wound up from the work and TV show. This is the perfect time for Chiara to interrupt and totally derail the falling-asleep process. The need for potty usually works great here. Sometimes, you can even refuse to go back to your bed and wiggle your way in between mom and dad for a time.

Late Whattheheckium (also known by far worse names, c. 3am-5am). Here you are in deep, deep sleep. Long, uninterrupted periods are absolutely necessary to wake feeling rested. Thus, this is the perfect time for physical brutality. This is Cody’s period, and snuggles up before you are aware of his presence, which allows him to start kicking you in the ribs and knocking his head against your jaw. Getting dowsed with ice water would honestly be more regenerative than cuddling with Cody.

The Ohgodsoearlium period (c. 5am-7am). No matter how late they stayed up or how late you think you will get to sleep, the kids will be in before this time (the exception is when you have to be somewhere early; they’ll decide it’s the perfect day to sleep until 9am). This period is characterized by the rise of the children to dominance and the complete extinction of sleep. The kids usually overtake the bed, forcing parents to seek refuge on places like the settee, for a few more minutes of desperately needed, if crooked-necked, sleep.

Which brings us to The Waking Era (c. 7am-present). Aided by stimulants such as hot showers and caffeine, the parents can usually bring themselves to a functional, if zombie-like, existence. Down in the kitchen, they sit in silence contemplating the brutality of facing the day to come. Meanwhile, the children, who seemed to get no more sleep than the adults, race up and down the upstairs hallway, knocking into things and screaming like frenzied howler monkeys.

I went into this parenting gig with eyes open, knowing it would be tough at times. I knew there would be sleep interruptions while the children were infants and needed feeding. But never did I imagine that, almost 6 years into it, I would still be sleep deprived. Perhaps I was naïve and did not know Darwin’s Law of Sleep Selection: species rise and fall, tectonic plates shift, but one thing never changes – children hate, hate sleep.

Put this post back where it goes!

While we were in Boston several weeks ago, my brother-in-law Jay approached my sister-in-law Lauren with the newly folded laundry. Working his way through the stacks, he proceeds to hand her a folded blanket.

“Go ahead and put it away, Jay” she tells him.

“Where should I put it?” he asks.

“Where it goes.”

“Where’s that?”

This is the blanket that Jay has been using to keep his toes warm in his favorite chair while watching television for the past eight years. It seems his male brain had never deemed familiarity with the blanket something worth worrying about. This blew Lauren’s female brain mind.

Honestly, I can relate to Jay. There have been many times when I’ve found myself with a folded article or toy to put away and thinking to myself in a panic “I know I’ve seen where this goes. I know it.” Last week I was putting away bath mats, and accidentally put the kids’ mat in our bathroom and vice versa. I knew they were mats, I knew they went on the tub, but I couldn’t remember which went where. Even as I write this I couldn’t say with confidence whether green goes in our bathroom or the kids. Apparently it matters, I just can’t figure out why.

Our friend Brian often gets mixed up which underwear is his daughter’s and which is his wife’s. I have a simple mnemonic for this myself: The underwear with Hello Kitty on them belongs to the 5-year-old (although I do understand this doesn’t hold true in all households).

And the biggest problem of all is redecoration. Andrea likes to keep her house up to date, periodically redecorating rooms, especially as the children get older and outgrow their kiddie furniture. While great for the curb appeal of our home, it’s more than my Neanderthalish mind can handle. In the playroom, where white bins have been replaced by wooden cabinets, I find myself asking “God, where in the world does Captain America go now?” Eventually I just give up, and Captain America takes up temporary residence on the train table (very temporary, of course, because the train table is literally being replaced this weekend).

In the end, giving up is usually what I do best. When making beds, Chiara’s pillows stand up. Cody’s lay flat. Don’t get them wrong. Who can remember this [stuff]? I give up!

But I’ve devised the perfect solution for Andrea – given the bird-brained capabilities of the male cranium, take a solution that has worked with birds. Build a device that rewards and punishes behavior, and the brain will teach itself. Stand the pillows up, and get a pellet of food. Lay the pillows down, get a mild shock.

Or wait, was it lay the pillows down for food?  ………ZAAAAP!

Crime and Punishment

You can almost see how the idea was first hatched: a military briefing room, covered in maps and blinking lights, the colonels and majors hunkered over a table chomping cigars. “It’s come to the final hour, men. What can we do? How can we assert control over this situation?”

“I know what to do,” says a gravelly voice from the dark corner. The soldiers gasp. No one knew he was sitting there, and even now only the ember from his cigarette gives any hint of form.

“Well Captain?” says the Colonel.

The commando steps into the light, revealing his sinewy, scarred face and eye patch. His one eye glares out with resolute determination, and he speaks slowly and deliberately. “I know what will strike fear into their hearts and force compliance… make them sit on the steps for 3 minutes!”

The time-out was born. Over time it evolved from military torture method into suburban disciplinary technique. In our house, the time out is surrounded by a whole system gleaned from the TV show The Nanny, where all great parenting is learned. Here’s how it goes: after serving his time on the steps, the child must say what he’s done, apologize, say he won’t do it again, and give hugs and kisses. It works wonders when televised.

Here’s the problem – it doesn’t seem to be working in real life. Our recidivism rate is appalling. The children attend their parole hearing, swear they are reformed, and then go straight back to their criminal ways. Longer and more draconian sentences don’t seem to be working. NOTHING SEEMS TO BE WORKING! THE KIDS JUST KEEP ACTING LIKE JUVENILES!

Another thing I’ve found is that the steps have, shall we say, porous containment ability. Jail breaks are frequent. If you are in our neighborhood, do not pick up hitchhikers. They could be time-out escapees. The stress level on the prison guards, which was high to begin with, shoots through the roof when the children abscond.

Finally, there are the two DA’s, who are constantly overworked and underappreciated. They relentlessly accuse one another of being “soft on crime” and of prejudices in the system, especially in regards to their partiality towards certain family members. (As a side note, this is certainly true in the case of Andrea’s dealings with Cody, who is a hellion and deserves everything he has coming. Chiara, on the other hand, is a dear, sweet angel who doesn’t really warrant hard discipline but instead needs tender and nurturing guidance).

Basically, the whole household justice system is broken and is desperately in need of reform. Sometimes I think we should do as England did in the 18^th century and ship our criminal class (children) to Australia. At least then we could explain their behavior due to upbringing by kangaroos.

The Brown Badge of Courage

I’m sure you’ve all had a similar discussion with expecting parents. For me, it was Matt and Nicole. We’re chatting about crib sheets and Robeez, when all of a sudden the conversation takes a turn. In our case, it was Matt who asks the big question: “how bad is the whole diaper thing?”

You know what he’s really thinking: “just how much is poop going to invade my life?” Of course you say “it’s really not that big a deal. You get used to it” What else could you say? There’s no turning back for them at this point. But in reality you want to lean in, cast a steely gaze across the table, and say in hushed tones through clenched teeth:

“You don’t know the horrible aspects of poop. I’ve been through two children and I know. I’ve seen Diaper Genies overturned. I’ve seen poop in the tub, poop on the carpet. I tell you, poop is Hell!”

We all remember our first time. You’re wrapping the diaper up for disposal and maybe just once you wrap it a little too tightly. You can feel an odd sensation – a little warm and gooey on the back of your hand. You’re a little bit in shock and your brain doesn’t know how to react. But then the realization strikes you like lightning “OH MY GOD! I TOUCHED POOP. I TOUCHED POOOOOP!!!!!!”

You were green then, and it didn’t kill you even though you thought it would. Five years and two children later, you are a grizzled poop veteran. You have the battle scars to prove it: this scar is from the blow-out diarrhea when you were out of diapers… at Target; that scar is from the billowing brown clouds emitting from your son’s bathing suit at the pool. This one is from constipation. That one is from diarrhea¹. There are so many more scars, you couldn’t even count them if you wanted to. Heck, you’ve forgotten where you got half of them.

The biggest scar of all is on your very soul. Parenthood called and you responded. You’re not proud of everything you’ve done, but you did what you had to do. The tattered regimental flag still flaps in the breeze. You’re still standing. You ain’t been whipped by poop yet and you ain’t plannin’ to let it whip you in the future.

And if this crazy world has taught you anything, it’s that poop is just a part of life. Like being an orderly in the old-folks home, dealing with excrement is just part of the job of a parent and you do get used to it. But make no mistake, it is a dirty job. Some of you expectant couples may think parenting all glamor and glory, but let me tell you, boys:

Poop is Hell!

 

¹Footnote: the biggest poop catastrophe in Kimmel family history – probably in all of human history – occurred in 2012. Chiara was on stool softeners for constipation. Cody showed his admiration for Chiara by eating several. Cody always likes to wait until the last possible second – every trip to the toilet is an emergency – and this time was no exception. I frantically sprint with him in my arms, but in removing his pants his underwear snags on his foot. It was all over: what I swear was five pounds of very loose poop come out – all over him, all over me, all over the bathroom floor and rug and shower curtain. I couldn’t even move for fear of tracking it all over the house. So Andrea went about what I’m sure was the worst parenting experience of her life – while Cody and I took an impromptu shower. We hid the stool softeners from then on.

Just Air it Out!

One thing I just cannot figure out in my house is laundry. How is it possible that we do so much laundry? I am not exaggerating here, we average a load of laundry every single day. Add in the sheets and towels on Saturday and it’s up to multiple loads in a day.

Here’s the big problem with laundry: folding. Back when there was nothing but adults, you had big articles that filled the machine and you fold them. Now you’ve got a load that is the same size, but three times as many small articles. The effort to fold a small clothing item is the same as a big clothing, but twice as many fit in the washing machine. Now my daily past-time is folding.

Another problem: We’re also constantly running clothes either overnight or while we are at work (or, we had good intentions of finishing the laundry in the evening and we fell asleep). That means that clothes sit around for a long time and get wrinkly. That means a lot more ironing – ironing clothes that you used to not have to iron – and a lot more time wearing wrinkly polos. This has done wonders for my professional appearance (and career prospects no doubt).

The great mystery is: How is it that the kids can generate more than one day’s worth of clothes in a day? I swear that, in that load of laundry every day, there are multiple outfits for each child. Plus there are always things like jammies and bathing suits to help round out a load.

Actually, I know where all the laundry comes from. It’s their mother, who oddly enough feels like they should actually wear clean clothes. We’ll go to an activity at a friend’s house in the evening and she’ll want to put the kids in a new set of clean clothes. This is obviously nuts, since the “activity” seems to usually mean to “roll around in the mud” (Cody, when playing outside, can be relied on to find whatever may exist and put himself face-down into it; Chiara isn’t much better).

Instead, I think Andrea should employ a strategy from my days in the college dorm: grode clothes. You may remember the bonfire at Texas A&M before the terrible accident (I graduated the year before). Your “grodes” were the clothes you wore to the site where you cut the bonfire firewood. Your beloved dorm mates would do their best to make sure your grodes got as dirty as possible – not just with mud and the like, but preferably with whip cream and maple syrup as well.

Grode clothes were never washed. They were just hung out of your dorm window to dry out. Come to think of it, that was pretty much our cleaning philosophy for everything in the dorm room – just air it out. It was the cleaning equivalent of Hakuna Matata – and trust me we had “no worries” when it came to the cleanliness of our dorm. That this philosophy ran contrary to our primary goal of attracting female mates never occurred to us.

But therein lies the solution. The kids aren’t trying to attract mates at this point. Andrea and I aren’t either (you can tell as much by my wrinkly polos). So the kids can get their clothes as grodey as they want, and we can confidently bring them to whatever activities that may come our way.

For those of you who might invite us over but would prefer not to have two grodey kids tracking maple syrup on your living room carpet, just remember this tried-and-true technique for cleaning from Texas A&M’s Dunn Hall: Just Air It Out! Hakuna Matata!

Warning: Parenting is hazardous for your health

At my most recent doctor’s visit, I was diagnosed with borderline high blood pressure (pre-hypertension). Three years ago I was running marathons and the healthiest I’d ever been. Now we’re having discussions about the possibility of taking Lipitor for life.

It’s small wonder. I mean, taking care of the kids does not exactly put me in a Zen meditative state. When I’m fighting Cody to put his socks on after kicking them off for the tenth time, I don’t need a blood pressure cuff – I can feel my diastolic skyrocketing. And that’s just the stress dimension. Look at what kids do to the other aspects of your health:

Diet: I don’t know about you, but our diet pretty much consists of chicken nuggets and ice cream. That’s on a day that we can convince the kids to eat the chicken nuggets (sprinkles, yes sprinkles, on the chicken usually do the trick). Andrea’s and my diet doesn’t seem to be much better. The four major parenting food groups in our household have become: caffeine, ibuprofen, alcohol and Twix bars. Sometimes not in that order.

Exercise: If anyone has figured out exercise while working and parenting, please leave a comment, because I have given up hope. My doctor has recommended 30 minutes of brisk walking every day. Now that Chiara can ride a bicycle I had a fantasy that we could do this as a family. But the 30 minutes of brisk walking has become: 5 minutes of arguing with Cody that no, he can’t ride his tricycle and has to ride in the stroller; 5 minutes of slow walking while Cody suffers through the first block on his tricycle before giving up; approximately twenty 30-second brisk walking intervals between stops to pick up pine cones, pick Chiara out of the dirt, and say “hi” to passing dogs; 5 minutes looking for snail shells at the pond; heading back with twenty more intervals as before; 3 minutes of brisk walking while carrying a tricycle. Add on a shower and it’s just not something we can work into the schedule every day.

Sleep: Okay, sure, we could use more sleep. But listen, when we get the kids down at 8:30 we’re not just going to flip off the lights. Mommy and Daddy need our few, precious hours with just the two of us… and 2-3 episodes of Breaking Bad. So we’re running a sleep deficit to begin with, and then both kids interrupt our sleep in turn. And I mean they wake us up every. stinking. night. Having a size 11 foot in your gut isn’t great for rest and recovery, either, by the way.

Joint and muscle health: Any parent of an infant knows you’re going to be sacrificing your back to parenthood. The kids just get heavier from there. Mine are both around 40 pounds. Basically, I’ve had car accidents that were better for my neck and shoulders than the piggy back rides that seem to be required on a daily basis.

Time for quiet contemplation: Hahaha! I can’t believe I just wrote that!

So, bottom line, the prognosis for my blood pressure is not good. Nor for any parents’ blood pressure as far as I can tell. I knew having kids would be a lot of work, and expensive too. What I didn’t know was that they should come with a label: Warning, parenting can be hazardous to your health!