Tick-tick-tick

Here’s the basic problem with the kids, especially in the mornings: no sense of urgency. Their parents are type-A, on-the-go, git-er-done, MBA types. In the morning the kids have the urgency of clinically depressed tree sloths on a hot day.

They wake up when they want; it takes an age for them to even start breakfast in the morning; getting dressed is a fight. Even worse, they always want to distract themselves with television. Don’t they understand we have places we need to be? We are going to BE LATE TO SAFETY TOWN! You can’t be LATE TO SAFETY TOWN!

We have this thing with oatmeal. Oatmeal is one of the few foods we can convince the kids to eat in the morning, mostly because by the time the kids are through with it, it’s packed with more sugar than a Kit-Kat. First we use the maple and brown sugar variety. Then, the kids add sprinkles (at least two kinds, but not the two you first pick out of the cupboard) and chocolate chips. This is my law of parenting precedent: if you ever agree, even once, to put a topping on oatmeal, you’ll be doing it for the rest of your blessed life.

Basically, with the toppings and the baked-in brown sugar, we’ve taken a natural, wholesome and fulfilling meal and turned it into the equivalent of Krispy Kreme. That goodly Quaker on the front looks down with his benign smile, but frankly he’d be terrified the mockery we’ve made of the oats he worked so diligently to gather (no doubt on horse and buggy).

The sprinkles aren’t the half of it. Oatmeal must, without exception, be served in the correct bowl – pink for Chiara, blue for Cody. It must have the exact right water content: Chiara likes hers very thick, Cody likes his soupy. It’s good that Cody likes it soupy, because he always wants to “help” pour – the result is an oatmeal swill that I don’t think I could stomach.

Finally, the oatmeal must be within a temperature band approximately the width of a human hair. This requirement is especially rich, since as I alluded to earlier, the kids are typically lollygagging on the couch while the oatmeal is at the proper warmth. We then reheat it and it is scalding; distracted by cartoons it then gets too cold again. Repeat ad infinitum - remember, you have to get all this perfectly right; not getting it right could result in a chocolate-maple-sprinkley-oatmealy stain on the kitchen rug.

And that’s just eating. Although they are fed, the kids are still in their jammies with messy hair and un-brushed teeth. Maybe in a future post I’ll cover these ridiculously time-consuming steps. Meanwhile, I gotta go. The minutes until Safety Town are ticking away!

Sundays in the Vestibule

We go to the best Catholic church in the world. Why is it the best? No kneelers. Kneelers are apparently God’s way of testing your devotion by inflicting stabbing pain on your lower back while cantors chant lengthy lists of saints. At Saint John’s we don’t have them. We stand and we sit. We don’t kneel. It’s the greatest. Also, the homilies are short, especially when Father Dennis delivers them. This church is why we are never moving again.

Basically, my measure of the quality of a Catholic church is how little pain it inflicts on me. Judging by the number of families skipping the closing hymn and blessing after communion, I am not alone in this view. But not even Saint John can save us from the biggest church pain point of all: Cody.

I don’t know why, but Catholic tradition is to keep children of all ages with you in the pew. As a non-Catholic, few things strike me as such a bad idea as this. We’ve attended church for five years constantly distracted by poking, whining and crying. We get nothing out of it. There could have been two Popes since John Paul II for all I know.

John Paul is still Pope, right?

The kids get nothing out of it, either, except for regular time outs. When people ask me where I go to church, I tell them “the vestibule at Saint Johns,” where I’ve spent an hour each week for the past three years trying to keep Cody from going back into the service.**

Those sitting around us get nothing out of it either. They get a constant distraction and annoyance for a full service. They let us know their feelings via glares. But we don’t care, we’re staying in the pew. There is a cry room, but we refuse to go on principle. We’re not second-class citizens who should be banished behind glass because we procreate (which, in case you’ve missed it, the church supports). The cry room is full of, guess what, crying. It’s also full of kids playing loudly with toys. What it’s not full of are people who can actually hear and participate in the service.

So no one gets anything out of this arrangement. Why does the Church insist on keeping kids in the pews? I’ve heard many Catholics say it’s so children can learn to sit still and listen. This is apparently why adult Protestants can’t stay in their seats.

Mostly, I think it’s about obligation and demonstrating your devotion through thick and thin. The Catholic Church just seems to have that ethos. But I don’t. I’m Methodist. So I think that having kids in the pew is just nuts.

I think kneelers are nuts, too, and I don’t care who knows it. You can tell John Paul the next time you see him.

 

**Footnote: Parishioners of Saint Johns will rightly point out that the church has established a nursery. Of course, this was started by Andrea, so it’s not totally in the church’s win column. Plus, it’s not open that often – like during the summer or whenever the bridge club wants the space.

All dressed up with no clambake to go to

I’m sure many men out there would agree with my position “I don’t like shopping.” But I’m guessing few have taken it to my same extreme, “I don’t shop.”

That I’ve been fortunate enough to manage this has required a tradeoff. Andrea and I have an implicit agreement that, because I don’t shop, I’ll wear whatever she buys. Clown pants? Fine. Punk skater look? No problem. Anything but sweaters. I don’t know why I don’t like them, I just hate the way they cling to my elbows.

It turns out that what Andrea just loves is the preppy New England look straight out of the J. Crew catalogue – seersucker pants, plaid pants, pastel pants, pants with little lobsters or sailboats or seahorses on them, woven belt, boat shoes, white polo shirts. The sweater goes over the shoulders, so I can live with that. She likes this look a lot, and now I could go to 8 or 10 clambakes in a row without risk of embarrassment that I would be caught in the same outfit twice. The problem is this: we don’t go to any clambakes. We haven’t been invited to a clambake since moving to Ohio. Even when we lived in New England we might go to only two a year. 

So I have a closet full of unused pastel pants. I can’t wear this stuff to work – the Miller Time guys who do the real work at my company wouldn’t let me get away with that. And they’re too nice to bum around in on the weekends. I’m not sure when, if ever, I should wear them.

And the clambake clothes are just a few of the articles that I have no idea when or where I am supposed to wear them. I had a pair of flip-flops with orange straps that I kept trying to wear out on the weekend and Andrea would say “those don’t go with your outfit” (note: “outfit” here is defined very loosely to include stained shorts and a crummy t-shirt). After twenty or thirty tries, I finally said “what exactly am I supposed to wear these with?” Andrea bought me a bright orange t-shirt shortly thereafter.

I now wear that orange t-shirt, stained shorts and matching flip flops almost every day between Memorial Day and Labor Day – it’s the only summer “outfit” that I know matches. Unfortunately, the orange t-shirt is the exception. I’m mentally stuck with many articles of clothing, so I just end up wearing the same 5-10 outfits to work and another 5-10 while bumming around on the weekend. I have a pair of paisley – yes, paisley – shoes that I couldn’t match to an outfit to save my life.

And so my closet is kind of like the warehouse at the factory where I work, where the inventory is classified A, B, or C based on how much is used. Like the warehouse, I have the A-movers, the stuff that I wear every day. The B-movers are the slow movers but at least I know what to do (hey, that restaurant is funky-dressy! I have an outfit for that!). The C-movers - the preppy gear and sweaters and paisley shoes – well, they just hang there unused waiting for the accountants to write them off.

Kiddie Capitalism

Many parents complain of being overloaded with kids’ activities. Our trick? Only sign up one child for anything. Chiara does piano, dance, gymnastics, reading lessons and, at one point, soccer. Cody… well, Cody plays with sticks in the dirt.

I have to tip my cap to these institutions in how efficiently they separate us from our money. My theory on dance is that the lessons are basically a breakeven proposition – and that the real money is made at the recital. Between $50 in tickets, $80 costume, $40 pictures, $60 video, $20 flowers and other required (okay not required but come on, who’s not buying the video?) purchases we’re into the recital for several hundred bucks. We’re not alone - the auditorium is chock full for multiple recitals. This year Chiara increased from one to two recitals – Saturday and Sunday – which besides blowing a hole in our weekend schedule also blew a hole in our budget. Man, what a business.

If the dance hits you with a full frontal assault in the form of the recital, gymnastics is more of a covert operation. These guys have it to a science.

“Look into my eyes,” they say, waving a gymnastics medal in front of our face, “Chiara is doing VERY well.”

“Chiara is doing well,” we repeat, mesmerized.

“She has a lot of talent!”

“She has a lot of talent,” we drone.

 “I think she’s ready to move up to pre-team!”

“Pre-team… checkbook…” The coach cackles. Our brainwashing is complete.

Pre-team is twice a week instead of our current once per week. It’s $200 more dollars a month. But this is the path to competitive greatness – the road to Olympic gold runs through pre-team.

Never mind that to an outside observer Chiara’s ability to do dip-steps on a balance beam is indistinguishable from all the other girls in her class. Or that these are essentially the same dip-steps she was doing a year ago with only glacial signs of progress. Chiara has talent that really should be nurtured. Plus, the pre-team class is undersubscribed this year.

Never mind, too, that there is always one more level to go and the different levels and classes have absurd complexity. The gym has classes named after colors, letters, numbers, celestial bodies, and designations like “team.” Which class is the best amongst red, level 3, comets and pre-team? I’ll be darned if I know, but I’m sure the coaches will tell us the best next step for Chiara.

Left to her own devices, I’m sure Chiara would be perfectly happy doing dip-steps to the end of time in “Comets.” But we have social standing to maintain. Another girl in Chiara’s class moved up to pre-team before her. This simply cannot stand, since Chiara is clearly the better talent (ignore what I said above about no discernible difference in these girls. Chiara is clearly the best!). So come the fall, I predict that Chiara will be in pre-team with coaches encouraging us to move to level 3, we’ll be $200 a month poorer, and Cody will be digging with sticks in the field behind the gymnastics studio twice a week instead of only once.

Daddy Nights

Going to bed is an absolute fiasco. First, the children want to change out of the pajamas they have worn all day (all they ever want to wear is pajamas, sometimes it’s all we can get them to wear to school) and change into new pajamas. This is usually triggered by a defect along the lines of getting a few drops of water on the first pair of pajamas. They fight brushing their teeth. They don’t want to use the potty.

Then – all of a sudden – we’re hungry again! And we’re thirsty! You said we could have a snack!

We have to debate (fight) over whose night is whose with which parent. “You said I get Mommy tonight!” “No, I want Mommy!” They both always want Mommy.

Chiara, to her credit, will often capitulate here and take daddy. But there are conditions. Daddy has to wear his raggedy blue New England Patriots t-shirt. And this t-shirt is an absolute piece of garbage at this point. The embroidered patriot on the front is pulling away from the t-shirt, leaving holes at the corners of his three-corner hat. The seams on the shoulders are fraying. But wear something in better shape, say my raggedy Boston Celtics t-shirt? Absolutely not – that’s grounds for screaming match.

The other piece of required go-to-bed uniform is the black soccer shorts that my sister gave me for Christmas back in high school. The addition of the soccer shorts is usually on a night when I just feel like lounging in my sweats or even in my work slacks. Really, I was pretty happy just the way I was and felt no compelling urge to change into any other clothes. But if I resist, it is going to be a screaming match. Again.

The next battle is books and the debate over how many. My starting negotiating position is one and hers is fortyhundredfortyfour. Afterwards, we turn out the lights. Now she wants to do math problems. The same negotiation ensues. She wants fortyhundredfortyfour. She always wants fortyhundredfortyfour.

I lay in bed with her for “two minutes” (another negotiation point but since Chiara can’t really tell time it ends up anywhere from 30 seconds to five minutes). Then I stand in the hall with the door open, if I can worm my way out of bed. With extreme good fortune, after “one minute” in the hallway I can make my way to the bedroom. But usually Chiara appears while I’m brushing my teeth and announces “I’m still awake!” with glee. The cycle repeats: lay in bed, stand in hall, back to room, until no matter what time we started it’s 9:30 and she’s finally asleep for good. Around that time, Andrea emerges from Cody’s room, groggy and hair muffed from lying there for over an hour.

“I fell asleep again” she says “ohmygod I have so much work to do and I’m so tired.” We then proceed to the bedroom and Andrea and I work on the Sweet Kiddles to-do list until she involuntarily falls asleep.

It wasn’t always this way. Back before Cody needed books there was a wonderful thing called “Mommy Night.” Back then we used to toss Cody in the crib and we would swap nights reading books to Chiara.

Daddy nights were more or less like the routine above. But Mommy Nights, oh sweet Mommy Nights, I sit in bed, watch sports, read a book and have a drink. Mommy nights were wonderful nights.

Back then, Andrea claimed, not without merit, that the setup wasn’t fair. Her arguments were:

1.      Chiara regularly agitated for Mommy nights when it should be a Daddy night.

2.      Chiara can fall asleep anywhere from 8:20 to 9:40, sometimes worse, and somehow I got an inordinate share of the early nights.

3.      Andrea is with the kids all day and all I do is work!

4.      Every morning is a Mommy Morning!

My arguments are:

1.      I’m sleepy.

2.      Okay maybe not all that sleepy but I want to watch sports and have a drink.

3.      It’s not me asking for extra Mommy nights.

4.      Did I mention watching sports and having a drink?

We’ve worked hard at structure and consistency at bed time, and things have gotten a lot better than what I described above. But we will never, except in my most cherished memories, return to the halcyon days of Mommy Nights.

The Great Irony of Parenting

Last post, I mentioned the irony of travelling – when you are away from the kids you wish you were with them; when you are with them, you daydream about vacations. This is actually a corollary of what I call the great irony of parenting (This is like my “Murphy’s Law” so bear with me here). Here it is:

The great irony of parenting: I love my kids, but sometimes I just hate being their parent.

This is directly related to another saying: “The years are short but the days are long.”

Parenting is often great. On the odd Saturday afternoon, Andrea has needed to be out running errands or whatever, and I’ve had primary caretaking responsibility. We’ve spent these halcyon days playing in the playroom. The kids and I do puzzles, play board games while totally ignoring the rules, pretend to be Batman and the Joker beating the snot out of Thomas the Train. It’s great and we play for a couple of hours.

But then something happens. I look up and I get this sensation: Oh my god, it’s only four o’clock. I’m now done. Batman’s assault on Thomas has lost its novelty. I feel like we’ve had plenty of quality interactive time and now a little quiet time to ourselves would be perfect. And I have this unstoppable urge to tend to my iPhone villagers – they’re not going to lead themselves into battle with neighboring villages, after all!

The problem is, the kids just don’t see it that way. In their minds, it’s not time for quiet time to ourselves. It’s never time for quiet time to ourselves. We want daddy! There can never be too much quality interactive time.

Like that third piece of chocolate cake or 27^th time through Billy Madison it’s now too much of a good thing for me. I’m done. Fried. But the kids can eat more chocolate cake. They’d eat chocolate cake every meal, and snack times, to boot.

The worst of it is, we’re moving out of the good period. We’ve had fun up until now, but the witching hour is upon us. The kids are getting tired and ornery, and the toughest parts are ahead: piano, dinner, tubby, bed. I groan at the prospect of four more hours of parenting, having already reached burn out.

At this point, Andrea sends me a text: 3 more stops. There in 2 hours. Can u start dinner?

Just when I’ve given up all hope, I remember daddy’s best friend: Scooby Doo movie night! The afternoon is saved!

The vacation and the family trip

I think our kids have a reverse internal alarm clock. Do you have a morning meeting - need to rush, rush, rush? They’ll do their best to sleep until 8am. This morning, the first morning of our first real vacation in 6 years, our flight not until mid-day, Cody was in our room before 6am.

To make a real vacation, you have to get rid of the kids, and so our first stop is Houston. It’s not a vacation if you bring kids. It’s a family trip. The kids reminded us of this fact on the way there. Just past airport security the kids have begged their way into an Auntie Annie’s pretzel and a pair of Crocs each. With vacation on the brain, we’re in a charitable mood, and so we’re in-the-hole $100 within the first 20 feet of the terminal.

Upon arrival to the gate, we learned to our dismay that the airplane was a regional jet with no in-seat entertainment. Past flights have taught us this lesson – your options are three hours of misery or paying for the in-flight DirectTV. Sure it’s a little expensive at $7.99, but worth every penny. They could charge $100 and we’d do it.

Without the entertainment we’re in for more of a challenge. Putting Cody in one of these flying cigar tubes is like putting a hornet in a jar and shaking it. Once the batteries run out on his leap pad (aargh!) he’s busy calling his sister the most offensive name he can think of, nakedpants, and eating cheese crackers using the messiest method I could ever conceive (open the sandwich, scrape out the cheese with your fingers, bash the crackers on the tray until thoroughly crumbed). He keeps the rest of the flight well informed of his status throughout the duration (“Mommy, I bless-you’d on the window!” at full volume) and his search for batman watches in the SkyMall catalogue proves fruitless.

Chiara does better pretending to do Sudoku in the magazine. But halfway through the flight she wants her old shoes back- the entertainment value of $34.99 has already run out.

Side note- if our weekend getaways are any guide, we will spend a great deal of our vacation missing the kids. It’s one of the great ironies of parenting: Most of the time I spend away from the kids I wish I was with them; When I’m with them I daydream about vacations. Hopefully Hawaii is amazing enough to make it worth the sacrifice.