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Collision of Perspective

Sunday, March 15th, 2009

Enough time has passed that now I can share this story.

One of my work-at-home responsibilities is delivering the kids safely to day care in the morning, but this day had started off as troublesome as it gets. I needed thirty minutes to shovel a wide-enough space through the snow for my wife to extricate her car from the garage. After she left, Oren threw a tantrum because he didn’t want to get dressed. Siena couldn’t find a particular stuffed animal. Thirty minutes behind schedule—I had a phone meeting in under an hour—I had two screaming kids in the minivan. I began to shovel and scrape the windshield, refusing to abandon the kids to get my gloves. Then Oren soiled his diaper, and since I wasn’t willing to bring both kids (or just Oren) inside for a change, I began the ten-minute drive in olfactory overload.

The storm was rotten. The minivan failed to take a nearby hill, and so we half-slid toward an alternate route. Parking was impossible. Both kids insisted on being carried: sixty-five pounds of child, twenty-five pounds of clothes and baggage, three flights of stairs. On wet carpet we undressed, the kids clinging and unhelpful and smelly, when my phone rang. It was my wife, calling to tell me — you ready for this? — that she was in a car accident. Over the kids’ screams I got the most important details: no one hurt, car still functional, my wife psychologically stable enough to drive. Knowing she was safe, I reassured her I’d call back in two minutes. Quickly now, I did everything I could to rush through all remaining responsibilities, ridding myself of these loud, stinky, burdensome creatures, my mind racing with possibilities as I wait impatiently to call back my wife. When I finally do call, I get voicemail and leave a concerned message.

Phew.

Now here’s my wife’s version of the story. She leaves the house late and twenty minutes later gets struck from behind by a car, which causes her own car to spin around on the slick blacktop of a highway onramp. She calls me, offers me a perfunctory summary of events, and hears me say to her, “I need to finish this. I’ll call you back.” Click.

There really is no substitute for a little bit of perspective.

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Double Daddy Dooty Duty

Wednesday, January 21st, 2009

When my workload is lighter than usual, “work-at-home dad” becomes just “at-home dad.” I become the house husband, a man with an apron (or at least a dish towel) who wanders from room to room picking up after the children.

Less work is no justification for taking a vacation. If anything, I pick up all the slack — I didn’t know there was any slack — and pull double daddy duty: cooking, laundry, cleaning, quality time with the kids, errands. My career, I’m afraid, might be little more than a retaining wall holding back an avalanche of family obligation. Knock away one billable project brick, and suddenly I’m heating leftovers, shoveling snow, and empting the potty. It’s all dooty duty, when I’d rather be working.

I see clearly that the choice facing all working parents — (a) find a job, (b) raise your children — is not a life choice. It’s a day choice. Guilt or gumption gets us out of bed, and we struggle between answering or ignoring the screaming alarm in our room, or the alarming scream from the other.

I don’t believe that our careers are an excuse to ignore our kids. Nor do I believe that playing with kids is a good way to procrastinate at work. The choice is both real and constant, and the parameters of choice can change when we’re not looking. Maybe there is no best choice. Maybe the best we can hope for is that today’s choice is a decent one. It’s all just a game of dress-up anyway, no matter what.

Suppose, just suppose, that instead of spending valuable time to take my kids to the science museum or the aquarium or the play space, I use my time looking for work that takes me even farther my away from them. Does this make me double the bad parent?

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Sienna and Orange

Wednesday, August 27th, 2008

When our son Oren starting using lidded cups instead of bottles, I had a great idea. To make sure that we didn’t confuse Oren’s cups with those of our daughter Siena (spelled with one n), I invented a simple rule: “Orange for Oren.” If neither the cup nor its lid was orange, it would be Siena’s cup.

After about two years, we broke the rule and gave Oren any color he wanted for himself. Siena did this too, though she never seemed to choose orange. Our “Orange for Oren” guideline had inadvertantly evolved into a self-imposed limitation on Siena. This change is made immediately and instantly clear when I attempt to give Siena a cup with an orange lid. She bursts into whiney tears. “Noooo! That’s Oren’s cup.” I try to explain it was okay, but she refuses to listen, her grief quickly progressing into a tantrum.

As modern-day, open-minded parents, my wife and I have always been uncomfortable color-coding our daughter. Before Siena, we swore we would never dress our daughter in pink. That rule failed, but to my mother’s horror, we’re not afraid to dress Siena in boyish colors and patterns, even military-green camouflauge. Her name may be a color, but we’ve tried to keep color bias out of our home … only to end up engineering our own, for orange.

Today I asked Oren what his favorite color is. Blue, he says. I ask him what else he likes. Purple. Green. Yellow. Black. “What other colors?” Red. White. Brown.

Oren has no orange recall. It’s as if he’s desensitized to it. And Siena still adamantly refuses all things orange. No orange plates, no orange cups, no orange clothes, no orange toys.

Single-handedly, I have destroyed an entire color.

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The Fourth of Julwhat?

Monday, July 7th, 2008

I’ve know I’ve heard of this holiday someplace. Let me think, let me think.

If anything can be said about being a work-at-home dad, it’s that the name ”Independence Day holiday” is as ironic as vacationing on “Labor Day.” In the Boston area, July 4th is even more exciting, thanks to the nationally broadcast fireworks display downtown. Three times I’ve been a part of millions-of-people-thick throngs at the Hatch Shell listening to the Boston Pops and its guest stars. On three other occasions I’ve been downtown but secluded from crowds, like in an office conference room or on the roof of a parking garage. I really like the Boston show.

On the afterMonday, however, it’s what everyone talks about, casually. Did you do anything special for the Fourth? Let me set the record straight. We did NOTHING. Here’s why.

Little kids hate fireworks. Hate, hate, hate, hate. They prefer monsters.
Being self-employed, holidays have no meaning to me.
My wife takes Fridays off, so this one made no difference.
You know those hateful little noisemakers people set off in their yards? The ones that sound like shrieking cats doing belly flops? They wake kids up. So,
We’re tired. Really, really tired. Besides,
Have you ever tried to watch fireworks on TV? All that cool explosion stuff is filtered out: size, color, sound, motion. It’s more fun to watch joggers.

So now you know. The evolution from affictionado to curmudgeon takes three years.

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Single Dad for a Week, Again

Saturday, May 31st, 2008

Once again, my wife is traveling for business. She’ll leave me alone with the kids, along with whatever support network I build, for four full days. On the fifth day, we’ll intercept my wife in Montreal. It will be the first time I’ve ever flown while outnumbered by my kids.

I’m starting to focus on the kinds of details that will make the days pass more easily. I can prepare large meals and lunches in advanced, wash kids’ clothes (especially pajamas), and even record some appropriate television content for those desperate moments. I’ll start writing down the events and demands for each day in advance, on paper, and refer to these “cheat sheets” all day long to make sure things get done. I’ve also mastered the timekeeping and note-taking functions on my mobile phone — alarm clock, countdown counter, text reminders — because I know I’ll get distracted.

My weeks of single-parenting always seem to end with greater disruption than I experienced during the weeks themselves. That’s because a week of rigorous effort creates a controlled environment, something much more rigid than what my wife and I create together. It is, perhaps, a more accurate glimpse at who I am as a parent, because it’s all me. I even enjoy the challenge, because I know when it ends.

It doesn’t take much to appreciate just how much easier dual-parenting is over single-parenting. Still, I embrace the reminders. Appreciation is good.

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One, Two, Transfer Money Directly Into My Checking Account

Tuesday, May 27th, 2008

On the way home from school today, Oren was upset at the prospect of being buckled into his car seat. Meanwhile, Siena wanted candy — something I indulge the kids with when I pick them up, most days — but I decided that today would be a no-candy day. She was telling me, over and over, that she was hungry. In Siena-speak, but I’m hungry means I want candy.

During all of this, I was using my in-the-ear Bluetooth microphone to talk to my credit card company. Now that we have a new address, I’m can use these odd interstitials in my day to update my address at the many companies where my wife and I have accounts. On this particular afternoon, I was on the phone with American Express.

In one ear, a recorded voice was speaking: “For English, press one. Para en Español, marque el numero dos.” In the other ear, Oren is screaming as he tucks himself into the cracks of the car like a crab, refusing to cooperate. Siena is impossible to hear with all his racket.

I press one.

The automatic voice is saying something else, something about account balances and cash advances, while I explain to Siena for the third time that we can have food at home if she’s really hungry. But just as I’m not listening to my options at American Express, she’s not listening to me. I turn my frustration to Oren and say, “I’m going to count to three.” This makes him especially upset, and he screams at full capacity.

“I’m hungry,” says Siena.

“One,” say I.

Oren and Siena are wailing and whining.

“Two,” say I.

And then, in my ear, I hear the telltale clicky-clicky noise that tells me I’ve selected a menu item with my voice. I have no idea what I’ve authorized by saying “two.” With all this noise, I can’t understand a word of what she’s saying.

Siena announces again that she’s hungry, this time with so much intensity that the operator hears her. The operator calmly explains that she doesn’t understand us.

So I hang up.

“Three.”

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Mountain Daylight Tied

Saturday, May 17th, 2008

The day care center closed for three days because of accidental water damage. My job allows me to adjust quickly to these kinds of surprises, though sometimes it means working late at night.

This time, however, I was in Denver at a business meeting and conference. The school’s phone call woke me at 6 a.m. MDT, after only three hours’ sleep.

My job has so much flexibility that I take for granted my responsibility to compensate for my wife’s in-house job. Her employer is wonderful, with fantastic benefits and a profound cultural understanding of “real life,” from births to funerals, but her working hours are billed to customers. She has to work the whole week. So it only makes sense for Mr. I-Love-To-Do-Four-Things-At-One-Time to be the first line of defense against sick children, cable guys, broken cars, Girl Scouts, and anything having to do with exploding plumbing.

Only this time, my hands were tied. While I hobnobbed with my colleagues, my wife was in charge of everything. When that 6 a.m. call came, with the announcement that day care would be cancelled for the remainder of the week, all I could do was phone home. My wife would have to do the rest: emergency childcare, extra mothering, part-time apologies at the office. I felt ridiculously inadequate, and even ashamed.

Giving up work is a major component of being a parent, but as the one who stays at home, my wife’s sacrifice is kept at a minimum. I adjust, so my wife doesn’t. This was a dramatic reminder that those roles can be reversed, and quickly.

Despite my pride in it, it seems I’ve been taking my flexibility for granted.

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House? Whatever.

Sunday, May 4th, 2008

Last Tuesday, my wife and I bought a house, agreeing to $13k of electrical upgrades. A few hours later I hopped a plane to Denver, where I attended professional conference, celebrated the end of a ten-year stint on the society’s national board, and co-moderated a full-day strategic planning session of my fledgling company and partnership. If you think my stomach is twisted into knots, you’re right.

And yet these things were about on par with how I felt about leaving some important clothes in the closet. Signing the loan paperwork felt like an errands. Since when does buying a house rate little higher than “eh”? No, what turned my guts into play dough were the anticipation, execution, and remembrance of having to leave my kids at home. Come on!

I’m used to juggling my kids with my career. Success is keeping both of these priorities going at the same time. And actually, juggling imperfectly is part of the fun. When I can’t adjust, adapt, or accept to the unpredictability of life, I can’t blame life. But watching my two- and three-year-old kids wave goodbye from the living room window changed that. House, pants, money, career: suddenly I felt as if I were juggling air.

One of Albert Einstein’s thought experiments involves a man in an elevator. If the occupant of an elevator feels weightless, there is no way for him to know if the elevator is falling toward the ground, or if the ground is rising up to meet the elevator.

It feels as if I’m juggling air, but the perspective is wrong. It’s also true that my kids are juggling me.

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Moving the Mobile

Monday, April 21st, 2008

We’re moving.

I’ve moved enough times to know just how challenging moves can be, but also how freeing. Moves are an opportunity to put things into storage, take things out of storage; to buy new things, sell old things, and throw out the rest; to strategize and to worry; to feel nostalgia and nausea. I’ve also moved my office, which can be described (borrowing from one description of Boston’s Big Dig) as performing heart surgery on a tennis player … during the Wimbeldon finals. What I have never done, however, is moved my kids.

Their world is this home. The idea of living someplace else might sound interesting, but I know it has no reality in their heads. Just as they believe their day care teachers exist only at the school, like lamp fixtures, so does “home” mean here, right now. Likewise, I wonder if their subconscious sense of “daddy” is connected to a room we’ll never see again.

Building my new office is more than a logistics challenge. It means establishing both a new haven, where I can escape the happenings in the house, and a new set of boundaries, where I must teach the kids not to cross. And my office, on the same floor as their bedrooms, will be both more approachable.

The truth? I have no idea what to expect. For someone who cherishes mobility, this move is harder than I thought.

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Signaling Busy

Tuesday, March 25th, 2008

A screaming child is like a forensics tool. Bring one into the room, and anyone who isn’t a parent gets immediately and obviously grumpy.

That whole changing-diapers-while-on-a-conference-call is a nice sound bite for the blog, but it doesn’t always work. After all, sometimes I run the phone meetings, which means my phone is un-muted almost the whole time. I can get important calls at inopportune times, too, and still answer them. And if I’m ever on a phone call at the exact moment my kids wake from their naps — their cries for Daddy amplified over the monitor — it’s nearly impossible to react quickly enough.

“Are those your kids?”

Among any parents on the call, I’m immediately forgiven. “How old are they?” and “Boy or girl?” are the big questions. My fellow parents wax nostalgic about their once-small children, maybe get a little envious. For everyone else, though, the feedback is ominous. ”Do you need to go?” and “I thought you had a nanny” seem to top the list. If it’s a conference call, I might hear somsething like this: “While Seth takes care of his kids, why doesn’t David talk about….” It’s as if I tore open the back of my pants, and everyone is pretending it’s okay.

Phone calls offer people a quick and intimate listen at your world, and enabling that listen is unprofessional. But to walk away from my children when I need to concentrate on my words, or to hear without interference, is an emotionally violent act, like slamming a door. But the polite daddy-is-on-the-phone-right-now compromise works only for a few seconds. At these moments, I have no choice but to hope there are some other parents on the call who will cover for me when my honest professionalism gets interrupted.

I need a telephone switchboard with extra buttons for my kids, like Mute and Hold. In the meantime, my kids are a busy signal.